


A Penny Dreadful

by Popcornjones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angry John, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Asperger's Sherlock, Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, Loss of Virginity, Love, M/M, Memory Loss, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, References to Drugs, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock season 2 episode 3, Sherlock season 3 episode 2, Sherlock season 3 episode 3, Sherlock season one episode 3, Top John, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes in hospital having lost his memory – how does Sherlock explain their life together? </p><p>"...he was tall. OF COURSE he was tall. Why couldn't John have a short boyfriend?! (Or a girlfriend! John thought rebelliously. Why couldn't I wake up with a beautiful woman telling me we were TOGETHER together?!)"</p><p>A little bit of everything - hurt John, action John, soft John, wanker John, their first time together, the (hopefully not) last time they were together, the whole love story we all love so much and the truth about Major Sholto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why Do You Think This Might Be Germany?

John's eyes fluttered and opened again. This time they stayed open.

The relief was so acute, Sherlock almost cried. He had held vigil at John's side since he'd emerged from surgery, looking almost exactly as he did at home when Sherlock watched him sleep. Except for the bandages, the hospital gown and the small smear of blood and dirt behind one ear.

John had fallen – John had been pushed by the murderer's bloody bear-like husband – out a second story window to the alley below, bouncing off a large metal bin before striking the pavement. Sherlock could still hear John's startled cry cut off by the crunch of iron crushing bone then the dull thud of flesh meeting pavement and the tinkle of raining glass.

Sherlock had paused only to knock the husband cold – with a savage uppercut to the chin from his long-ago boxing days (the man had been shot but didn't seem to have realized it yet) – before looking out the window to see John unconscious on the filthy ground, then running full-tilt out of the flat and down the stairs, running into Lestrade and hollering for him to get an Ambulance RIGHT NOW. Donovan had been on his heels as he reached John, an alarmingly large amount of blood pooling around his head. And suddenly Sherlock was frozen, unable to force himself to feel for a pulse he was terrified he wouldn't find. 

Donovan had waited an entire second before pushing past Sherlock with a curse. "He's alive." She said brusquely, her fingers on his neck, and Sherlock felt intense gratitude to whatever force had kept John breathing that – to his surprise – encompassed the irritating woman. 

"Where is the ambulance!?" Sherlock had shouted then knelt next to her and carefully touched John's wrist to feel for himself that John's heart continued to beat.

Everything after that had been war – long stretches of tense boredom, waiting (for the paramedics, for a prognosis, for John to emerge from surgery...) punctuated by heated battles to stay at John's side (he'd won the one with the paramedics, lost in the A&E, won again with the hospital staff by brandishing the medical power of attorney John had had drawn up only two months previously. "Do you really want to have to defer to Harry?" He'd asked.)

Sherlock had been waiting for John to wake for hours, sitting beside his bed, holding his hand, talking as calmly as he could to John's unconscious profile about whatever came to mind: bees, the dark-haired nurse who was cheating on her husband, the fair nurse whose bulimia had relapsed, how he'd realized Matilde Vaughn had to be the murderer when John had said, 'you'd think she'd wear a watch,' the surgeon's drugs habit and disintegrating marriage, bees again, Lestrade hovering in the waiting room instead of going home to his lonely flat, Donovan's competence in the alley...

Twice during his monologue, Sherlock thought John had woken, but after looking around in confusion John had drifted off again without speaking.

"John?" Sherlock said, blinking away the hot, scratchy feeling in his eyes.

John closed his eyes then opened them again and looked around the hospital room, a small questioning noise escaping his throat.

"I'm here, John. You're in hospital." Sherlock said and caressed John's cheek.

John startled at his touch and turned his head to focus on Sherlock, his eyes confused and, Sherlock could see, a little angry. 

"Do you remember what happened?" Sherlock asked. He rubbed the top of John's hand that he held, trying to reassure him – John usually found touching to be pleasant and reassuring.

John nodded slightly. "I was shot." He said. His voice was soft and breathy and he winced. "Collapsed lung?" He asked.

"Yes." Sherlock said slowly. "You have a collapsed lung. But you weren't shot, John. Matilde Vaughn's husband pushed you out a window and you fell."

John eyes were shut. "Hurts." He said.

"I'll call the nurse." Sherlock said. He pressed his lips to John's hand – which made John's eyes fly open again – then let go to reach for the call button.

John was regarding Sherlock, a strange look in his eyes. It was the look John gave him when he had or hadn't done something John considered obvious, though it was never obvious to Sherlock and he usually couldn't see why anyone would care. Right now, the look made Sherlock feel uneasy.

"The doctor said you'll recover fully. And I'm –" Sherlock reached for his hand again, but John moved it away. "– here... John?" Sherlock sat back down. "You're angry with me." He said softly. "Why?" Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands.

"No." John said. "Just lay off the touching, mate." He closed his eyes, looking exhausted from the effort of speaking.

Mate? John had never called him 'mate.' That wasn't right. Sherlock felt a nauseating sense of foreboding. He wanted John to talk to him, help him understand. John kept his eyes closed until the nurse came in. 

"Good evening, Dr. Watson. I'm Helen." She announced to the room. "It's good to see you're awake." Sherlock had seen her before (sensible, loved her job, naturally upbeat, open marriage, less stupid than the others). He glanced at John who was making an effort to smile at her. 

"Call me John, please." John said softly. He finds her attractive, Sherlock realized with shock. It wasn't something he'd seen on John's face since Sherlock had returned from the dead over two years ago. 

"I'm sure Mr. Holmes is happy to see you're awake - he hasn't left your side for a minute." She took John's wrist and felt his pulse, then pulled out a stethoscope to listen to his chest. "How are you feeling?"

"He, uh, he said he was in pain." Sherlock ventured. John glanced at him again.

"I'll let Dr. Fuglsang know you're up – she'll want to see you." Helen said, then turned to Sherlock. "She can adjust his medication if needed." She made notes on John's chart. "If you're thirsty, I can bring some ice chips."

"Yes, thank you." John said. "Erm, where ... is this ...Germany?

The sick feeling in Sherlock's stomach increased exponentially. Nurse Helen briefly made eye contact with Sherlock. He didn't try to hide his alarm. "Why do you think this might be Germany?" She asked.

"Doesn't look like Afghanistan." John looked around the room again. "This isn't a military hospital, is it?"

Helen opened her mouth then thought better and closed it. She looked to Sherlock.

"John – Captain Watson – has served several tours in Afghanistan." He told her numbly.

"Hmmm." She said. She pulled a penlight from her pocket. "Dr. Watson, I'm going to take a look..." She held his eyelid and shone the light in one of his eyes, then the other. "Can you tell me what year this is?" She asked.

"2010." John replied. Sherlock's guts clenched. 

"Mmm-hmm. Name the Prime Minister?"

"Gordon Brown." John said. "But there's an election."

"Good." The nurse gently probed his skull. "Headache?" She asked.

"A bit." John said. "Not as much as my chest."

"Erm, I'll get Dr. Fuglsang in here to talk to you soon, Dr. Watson. In the meantime, try and rest. Mr. Holmes will be here if you need anything." Sherlock nodded and she left the room.

John closed his eyes again. After a moment he said, "You're not military. Are you a chaplain? Or affiliated with the hospital somehow?"

"No, John. I'm..." Sherlock stopped. What was he supposed to say? Friend? Best friend? Boyfriend? "Look at me." He said instead.

John sighed and opened his eyes. Sherlock saw again how exhausted John was, saw that he was uncomfortable and breathing shallowly. And he saw no sign that John recognized Sherlock. "What's the last thing you remember?" He asked.

John closed his eyes and turned his head away. "I got shot. I went out after a chap who'd been hit – Lincoln, Sgt. Lincoln – and got shot before I could bring him in. What happened to him? I don't remember."

Sherlock realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out all at once. John cracked open an eyelid at the sound. "You should rest until the doctor gets here." Sherlock said.

"If you aren't going to answer my questions, you can go. I don't need a babysitter."

"Of course you don't need a babysitter." Sherlock said. "But I can't go."

"You really can." John said with more than a hint of edge in his weak voice.

"Stop talking, John. I need to think." 

"You're kind of a wanker, aren't you?" 

Sherlock laughed briefly, surprised. "So you've told me." He said 

John scoffed, not without humor. He relaxed and closed his eyes.

Sherlock sat silently, his fingers steepled in front of his nose, trying to disengage from the nausea and panic and think this through. Obviously John had a head injury. Chances were good that he'd regain most of his memories relatively quickly. The next time he opened his eyes he very well could recognize Sherlock and smile. Or he might never remember.

Two days ago at this time, Sherlock had finished an experiment (decay rates of human flesh subjected to various extreme conditions). He could see John sitting in his chair reading the paper from his seat in the kitchen and he felt a swell of happiness and longing. Sherlock rarely initiated sex and hated to have his work interrupted, so he had agreed to alert John when he was between tasks and projects. It didn't always lead to sex – sometimes they cuddled on the couch and watched crap telly, sometimes they snogged until John decided Sherlock needed to eat, sometimes they simply sat in their chairs and read in companionable silence. 

Sherlock walked over to John and stood awkwardly behind his chair. He wanted to touch John, but he was attempting to be more careful – he had learned that the things they might do with the adrenaline of an exciting case pumping through their veins were not the things one did as a matter of course ("Ooof! Sherlock you're heavy!" "Ow! Bloody hell, Sherlock! I hit my head! Get off!" "Oi! You just spilled my tea!" "Ung! Jesus, you're heavy for a skinny bloke!"). Sometimes John got frustrated that Sherlock didn't just know these things. 

"Finished up, then?" John had asked.

"Yes." Sherlock affirmed. 

"Good." John had dropped the paper and pulled Sherlock into his lap eagerly. "You're gorgeous." He'd said, kissing Sherlock. "Why are you wearing all these clothes?" 

"Someone's in a hurry." Sherlock had said. He pressed his face to John's neck – he loved the way John smelled. He loved that touching was something they did now.

"It's been FOUR DAYS. Do you know how sexy you look peering into that microscope?"

"It's only been three days, 20 hours. How have you survived this dry spell?" Sherlock asked wiggling his bum in John's lap. John was immediately hard beneath him. "You have been suffering. Poor, John."

"All right, shove off you cock-tease." John said pushing Sherlock off his lap and pulling him into their bedroom. There he had undressed quickly and fallen on the bed laughing at John's red pants. Sherlock made John watch while he opened himself up with his fingers, making himself feel good, moaning as he fucked himself. John was so hard, he was panting as he watched, his untouched cock wet with precome by the time Sherlock stroked lubricant on it. (Sherlock had never made John wait before. He considered the experiment a success.) John had attacked Sherlock then, taking him on all fours – a position they used only 11% of the time (John favoured positions where he could see Sherlock's face 71% of the time. Sherlock favoured John touching him 100% of the time and, experiments aside, was generally happy to leave the details to John) 

Sherlock gasped "oh, John!" as he breeched, he loved how it felt to have John inside him. Over time, he'd gotten more used to John's girth, there was very little discomfort now, just pleasure, overwhelming pleasure. John crooned delightedly over how well Sherlock took his cock, soon he was thrusting and grinding, his bollocks slapping against Sherlock's skin. John was attentive, slowing when Sherlock started getting close, edging orgasm, drawing it out.

Sherlock, without prior intent, began pushing himself backwards onto John's cock while John thrust forward and jacked Sherlock in rhythm. He came then, hard, and had collapsed onto the bed face first with the shuddering of aftershocks. John continued to fuck him, his weight pressed against Sherlock's back, until he cried out Sherlock's name and came inside him. (John said Sherlock's name during orgasm 83% of the time) After, John thought they might have gotten a bit loud, but it was only half eight, so he didn't think they'd disturbed anyone. Sherlock didn't care.

After the vigorous half hour of fucking, a quick clean up, then a lazily affectionate hour of snogging and kip, John had ordered takeaway. They'd sat on the couch in their pajamas, eating curry and playing footsie. Then John had taken Sherlock back to bed for a slower, sweeter round of lovemaking. Sherlock had fallen asleep feeling intensely happy and loved. 

John was a passionate, caring and inventive lover (not that Sherlock had much to compare him with) and it pleased Sherlock to collect data on their experiences – quantifying and mentally charting all things JOHN, saving everything carefully in his memory palace. 

And now John didn't remember Sherlock at all.

Sherlock thought about his life before John, his life during the two year 'holiday' when he'd been 'dead,' his life after John had wed Mary and moved away to the suburbs – he had tried, he had chased the work, thrown himself into every case, every puzzle. But the boredom had been worse, much worse. Sometimes even a good case – an eight or nine – couldn't rouse him from it. Even tracking down Moriarty's people eventually became dull – more than anything he wanted to get back to London, see John again, but after over a year away it got harder to focus on the outcome. He'd turned to drugs more often than he was willing to admit, it eased the ennui and, yes, the aching loneliness. Cocaine, even more than nicotine, made his brain WORK, his thoughts racing and tumbling around towards enlightenment. Cocaine made a depressed Sherlock feel like himself again. 

Sherlock knew he couldn't base his sobriety on another person, but John helped without either even realizing. Just being there, being Sherlock's friend, kept the boredom from becoming crushing. John was endlessly interesting. 

Was John interesting? Or was it some other elusive quality that kept Sherlock 'right?' There was a poetry to John that somehow made the whole greater than the sum of his admittedly average parts.

He looked at John now. His eyes were closed but Sherlock could tell by the way he held himself that he wasn't asleep. He wanted to say something – something John would think brilliant and fascinating and make John SEE him again. Instead Sherlock sat helplessly holding the melting ice chips the nurse had brought. Without conscious thought, he calculated the fastest way to obtain cocaine from his current location. It was bad, this expectation of need. It was what had overtaken him the moment he left John and Mary's wedding reception, the comedown from the months-long high too daunting to face sober.

Thirty two minutes later, two doctors came into the room with nurse Helen. 

"He's still awake." Sherlock told them. John's eyes snapped open and he shot Sherlock an irritated look. Sherlock was so often the subject of that look – it was so John! – it made him smile .

One of John's doctors – the one with the drugs habit and disintegrating marriage – introduced himself and recited John's injuries, what they'd done and John's prognosis as if John were a colleague he was giving the details of a particularly dull case. Sherlock could see John was mildly amused and listened while John asked several follow-up questions in the same detached mode. The upshot was John had compound fractures on the right side of his chest, they had removed bone fragments that had punctured his right lung and his liver, and others that could potentially do damage to his organs, then they had reconstructed several of his ribs and his right collarbone with metal plates and screws. John currently had a chest tube that would later require a short procedure to remove. They had also reduced the dislocation of his right shoulder and stabilized the fracture in his right humerus. John would be in hospital approximately another week, full recovery would take another six to eight weeks.

Sherlock saw John's quickly hidden confusion and distress at the surgeon's mention of 'scar tissue from a well-healed bullet wound.'

With that the surgeon stood back and the other doctor took over. She was a handsome woman in her 60s with pronounced laugh lines and an air of no-nonsense, a combination of which Sherlock approved. Without thought, he deduced her: Lesbian. Long-term partner. Partner's health is beginning to fail. Recently married now that they're able... Sherlock stopped himself with a small shudder of dread.

"Dr. Watson, I'm Dr. Fuglsang." She said. "I'm going to examine you now." John agreed with only the briefest glance at Sherlock – which clearly said 'They're letting you stay?!'

Fuglsang talked with John companionably throughout the examination. She started with his chest, listening to his lungs, asked about his pain – which John downplayed, but Sherlock could tell she saw through it so he didn't remark – and made notations on his chart. 

Then she asked about his headache, checked his pupils, asked what year it was, asked what he last remembered. She made several long notes in his chart.

When she finished John said, "Head injury, correct? I'm guessing I'm missing some memory." He sounded completely collected, but Sherlock read the fear in the clench of his hand and the tightness around his mouth."

"Yes, Dr. Watson, you seem to be."

"How much?" He asked.

"It's difficult to say for certain..."

"How much?!" John used his 'Captain Watson command voice.'

"You were shot six years ago. Give or take."

John reeled. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but Sherlock was terrible at things like that. Comforting was John's job, not Sherlock's. It was always terribly inconvenient when John couldn't do his part, it made Sherlock irritable. Maybe it was for the best – even Sherlock could see that attempting it now would only increase John's distress. Especially as touching him had gotten such a bad reaction.

"Will I be able to form memories going forwards? Will I remember this conversation tomorrow?" He asked. Sherlock admired John's determination to keep his emotions under control. Focusing on that helped ease the unrest John's question had caused in his own mind.

"I don't know." Fuglsang said. "It's possible that your hippocampus has been damaged in such a way that you won't form new memories. But it's more likely that this memory loss is temporary. At least partially." She continued on about memory loss, about having a neurologist assess John. Tests they would perform... Sherlock stopped listening. The talking went on and on. Finally they left.

Sherlock sat still in the silence, the room dim in the evening light, feeling very alone.

"I guess I know you." John said suddenly, surprising Sherlock.

"Yes. You do." He said.

"What are you to me then?" John asked softly.

"We're friends... partners." They had never named their relationship, Sherlock had no idea what to say. Again, this was John's area. He looked imploringly at John.

"Start from the beginning." John suggested.

"The beginning, yes. We met when you returned to London after you were invalided – you needed a room and I needed a roommate." Sherlock paused, should he explain everything or keep it brief? Brief for now, he decided. "We got on right away, and began working together. We became ... friends... best friends..." John looked unconvinced. How could Sherlock explain? "You asked me to be best man at your wedding!" That might do it.

"I'm married?" 

Sherlock hadn't meant to bring that up. "Erm, divorced. We're together now... we share a flat... again... it's really very convenient..." Sherlock trailed off.

"You're here with me because you're my friend? They don't let friends stay in hospital after visiting hours..." 

Sherlock frowned. "Don't they? Oh, I have this!" Sherlock pulled the medical power of attorney papers out of his pocket and handed them to John. "You made me sign it only a few months ago."

"I made you?" John looked the papers over carefully. "So I.... trust you?" John sounded dubious, not so much about Sherlock as with the concept of trust.

"Well, not to buy the milk or do the washing up, but... yes."

John squinted at the signature. "What's your name? Holmes?" 

"Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock."

John looked at him for a long moment. "You were holding my hand, Sherlock." He said.

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"Why?"

"We do that now... we're together. TOGETHER together." Sherlock saw that John didn't believe him, which frustrated him immediately. "You're the one who explains these sorts of things, John" Sherlock huffed. "I'm not... it's not my area."

John laughed harshly then winced at the pain it caused him. "If you really know me, you know I'm not gay. I don't go for blokes."

"No, you don't. Except for Bobby Noble from your rugby squad, four one-time encounters with different men in the military and one in a department store bathroom in London, and a love affair with Major Sholto that, I suspect, was the reason you signed up for your second tour." Sherlock enumerated matter-of-factly. "And me."

"That's not...! Who told you that... bloody nonsense!" John's dangerous voice, low and frighteningly controlled. 

"You did." Sherlock said, then continued, eager to show off a little for John. "Not that you had to, one look at Sholto and it was obvious. How was it obvious, you ask: because he's still in love with you, John, his biggest regret is breaking it off. Seeing you with your wife – and with me – on your wedding day was torture for him. So why did he come to your wedding? Obvious: sentiment. He told himself he wanted to see you happy, but really he just couldn't pass up a chance to see you, despite the pain it would cause him and the danger he was exposing himself to. Guilt wasn't the only reason he wanted to die that day." 

"Get out." John said with barely suppressed fury. 

It was worse than a slap – no 'amazing' or 'brilliant,' no admiration of Sherlock's cleverness, just 'get out.' The rejection cut deeply. "Did I say something wrong?" Sherlock asked, truly confused.

"Get. out." John gritted. "You're a fantasist. I'm. not. gay."

He'd made John angry – the kind of angry that made John leave their flat, slamming the door on the way out. Except John couldn't get out of his bed, so he was demanding that Sherlock leave. Sherlock nodded, stood slowly and walked towards the door. This felt wrong. It felt more wrong with every step. At the door he hesitated, he had to try again. 

"You said that for years – 'I'm not gay,' 'we're not a couple.' I took you at your word – I never had much of an interest in sex, so it didn't matter." Sherlock scoffed softly. "I thought sex was boring – a distraction I neither needed nor wanted." Sherlock paused and glanced at John. He was still listening at least. "I loved you, of course, we loved each other, just not that way. But after your marriage ended, you... we... I don't know how it started. I could see you wanted more. I... I'm not good at these things, but I try for you, John. Because it's you..." 

John blinked at him, taking in the speech. "You aren't quite normal, are you?" 

"Normal is boring. You hate normal."

John took another moment to digest Sherlock's words. "I'm sorry." John said firmly but not unkindly. "But you're wrong."

Sherlock could see John's face closing, shutting him out. He felt numb. "I'll, erm, I'll let Harry know you need her. In the meantime, I'll be... close by." He said and opened the door.

"Sh-sherlock." John said, stuttering a bit on the unfamiliar name. "Harry. How is she now?"

Sherlock turned back to John. "Same as always, in the bottom of a bottle. I texted her earlier." He didn't need to say that he hadn't heard back, John knew his sister better than anyone.

"Don't bother, then." John said. "I'm fine, you don't need to stick around."

"Yes, I do." Sherlock said. "I don't want to make you more uncomfortable, but I'll be right here if you need anything." Then he left the room and shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, a banished Sherlock contemplates drugs.


	2. I Worry About Him Constantly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Mycroft.

The corridor was bright with fluorescent light. It hurt Sherlock's head. He checked his mobile – there were texts from Lestrade and Molly, voicemail from Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and Mary. He should tell them that John was conscious. Sherlock leaned against the wall and slid down to sit on the floor. He expected the nurses would want to move him, but he'd deal with it when it happened.

Morphine....

Morphine was so good at dealing with pain. Morphine took the pain far away, made it small, made it bearable...cocaine relieved the boredom, morphine eliminated pain. It was, unfortunately, ridiculously difficult to obtain, even in hospital where he was surrounded by it. Heroin was easier to get...

Sherlock gasped back to awareness. He hadn't wanted to dwell on John throwing him out so he'd let his mind wander. And his mind went immediately to drugs. Stupid! Stupid and useless.

He had to do SOMETHING. He wanted to go back in the room and make John see things Sherlock's way. Arg! That wouldn't work – Sherlock had already managed to bollox everything up.

*John conscious – complications* He texted to Mycroft. That would get his attention, Sherlock never contacted his brother willingly. As much as Sherlock hated it, Mycroft would help.

Ten minutes later, one of the nurses (the bulimic) brought two chairs down the hall and set them next to John's door. She smiled at Sherlock. "These are for you." She said.

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered. Then looked away from her aware John would insist he thank her. He forced himself. "Thank you!" He said and she cringed. It sounded angry even to Sherlock. "Thank you." He said again, his voice uncertain. She nodded and ran back to the nurses station.

Twenty-one minutes after that, Mycroft appeared. He sat in one of the chairs. 

"Why are you slouched on the floor like a child?" Mycroft asked. "These chairs are here for a reason."

Sherlock looked at him. He slowly pulled himself up and sat in the other chair.

"I've spoken with John's doctors." Mycroft said. "He will of course get the best treatment available. I've engaged the top neurologist in memory impairment to examine him tomorrow."

"I thought you didn't approve of sentiment, Mycroft." Sherlock said to his hands.

"I don't. Your beloved Doctor has led you to throw your life away twice already..."

"That was hardly his fault!"

"No. But you wouldn't have jumped off a building for Lestrade. Nor would you have murdered a man to ensure anyone else's safety. Your sentimental attachment to John has proved costly."

"Then this must be Christmas for you, Mycroft – John doesn't know me. So why are you here, arranging for chairs and... top neurologists?"

"I'm here because you summoned me."

"Did I? I don't remember."

Mycroft sighed. "You know why I'm here, Sherlock. It wasn't a coincidence that you started back with the cocaine fewer than 24 hours after his wedding. And began your ill-fated campaign against Magnussen when John was still on his honeymoon. Since he's moved back to Baker Street, I've barely had to lift a finger. I shudder to think, brother mine, what will happen to you if he doesn't recover his memory."

"It was at least a week after the wedding." Sherlock said petulantly.

Mycroft gave him a 'we both know better than that' look. "Go home, Sherlock. Take a shower and get your things together."

"I can't –" Sherlock started to protest.

"AS WELL AS some things that John might like to have. The hospital will let you come back here anytime and let you stay as long as you need – it's been arranged."

"But-"

"I'll stay with John until you return. Go! And, Sherlock, no smoking. John would hate it."

\---

John was drifting – he really hated morphine. It made him sleepy. And it loosened his bowels to an alarming degree. It also made him hallucinate, so he preferred to keep his eyes closed. He could tell when it was safe to open them again when he started feeling the ache of broken bones, the sharpness of the incisions, the heaviness in his lungs...

"Bloody Christ!" There was an apparition standing at the foot of the bed – a tall, well-dressed, prissy looking male apparition. "You startled me, mate!" He said.

The apparition regarded him with icy disapproval.

"Do I know you?" John asked wearily. "Should I know you?"

"Yes, John." The man said. "We're well acquainted."

"You'll have to remind me."

"The man who was with you earlier, Sherlock Holmes. I look out for his interests."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Everything, John. You are, after all, his only friend."

John sighed and closed his eyes. What could he possibly have done to make these strange toffs his responsibility?

The apparition continued. "I'd be willing to pay you a significant sum to... continue the friendship."

"Pay me.... Why?"

"I worry about him constantly."

"Again, what does that have to do with me?"

"Surprising as it may seem, your presence in his life has been.... stabilizing. I merely wish that stability to continue."

John regarded the man. His suit was formal, fussy even. And must cost more than John could earn in six months. It wasn't what people wore to visit hospital. But the tall man wore it like John wore his uniform – like a second skin. 

John narrowed his eyes. "You want to pay me to be Sherlock's ....b-boyfriend?"

"Of course not. Simply to continue to be his friend."

"Sherlock said that we were..." John forced himself to say it. "...more than friends."

"Yes. But that's a relatively recent development, one I suspect Sherlock embarked on simply to accommodate you. He would do anything for you, John."

"That's... that's fucked up. I wouldn't do that."

"Perhaps I'm mistaken then. However, I'm not asking you to continue the romantic liaison if you're uncomfortable with it. You're a kind man –"

"I'm really not." John said.

"You're a kind man," he repeated. "I'm simply asking you to be kind to Sherlock."

"To PAY me to be kind to Sherlock." John clarified.

"Yes."

"No."

"No?" John thought he saw the man smirk.

"No. If Sherlock was – is – my friend, I don't want money for that. I wouldn't take it. I won't. Does Sherlock know you want to pay people to be nice to him? He's not that big a wanker."

"You seem awfully sure of someone you don't even remember."

"I'm not. I'm just... No. The answer is no." This time, John was certain he saw the man smile. "Who are you? What is this really about?"

"It's about you, John. Surely you're curious to find out what kind of man has captured your attention for the last six years."

John stared the man down. "You...you're trying to play me." He thought he should feel more outraged, but somehow it felt natural.

The tall man smiled again, a degree less icily. John couldn't tell if the smile was mocking or approving. "You know me too well, John." He said. 

"But I don't, though." John said.

The smile had disappeared. The man pulled something out of his pocket and held it up – a smartphone. He activated it, typed in a password and quickly manipulated it's screen. Then he walked around the bed to John's side and held out the phone. 

Hesitantly John took it and read the screen. "The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson? This is mine?"

"I thought you might like to read about the last six years in your own words."

John scrolled down the page. "I wrote all this?" When he looked up, the tall man was was at the door. "Wait, I can't take your phone."

"It's your phone, John. It survived the fall intact. Goodbye."


	3. It Started at Appledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What REALLY happened when John and Sherlock confronted Magnussen.

It started at Appledore, Sherlock was fairly certain. A seed was planted there that eventually changed his relationship with John to what it was today. Or what it had been before John had gone through the window in the Vaughn's flat.

John had been living at Baker St. making the difficult decision to forgive Mary for all the lies. Ultimately it was the child that swayed him. His own father had been distant and largely absent and John was determined to do better by his daughter.

After John had made his declaration to Mary at the Christmas Party, after he told her that he wanted them to look to the future, their future together, instead of the past, the drugs Sherlock had insinuated into the drinks had taken effect and Sherlock had convinced John to accompany him to confront Magnussen. It hadn't taken much to persuade John – this was a man who brought his gun to a family Christmas party, after all – simply assuring him that the fetus would not come to any harm from the sedative. And they were off!

But their adventure had quickly soured. Sherlock had badly underestimated Magnussen – underestimated his vast intelligence and his vast capacity for cruelty. 

"Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves ... and everything he holds dear." Magnussen had declaimed and Sherlock had smirked to himself, not yet realizing just how badly he'd fumbled. 

Magnussen had already explained pressure points – the things that gave him leverage over people. Like Moriarty, he saw relationships as weaknesses to be exploited for his own ends. "Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock." Magnussen had said to John as if he were talking to a child. "And Sherlock’s pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson’s pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson’s wife ... I own Mycroft. He’s what I’m getting for Christmas."

John hadn't liked that - the reminder of Mary's lies. But he was confident that Sherlock had it managed, that they would leave Appledore with the evidence Magnussen had on her and that would be the end of it. Thinking back on it now, Sherlock was staggered (once again) by John's complete trust in his brilliance.

Then Magnussen revealed his secret and Sherlock finally realized the extent of the trouble his hubris had gotten them in. 

"I’ll look at the files on Mrs Watson." Magnussen had delighted in taunting John about Mary. "Mmm, ah. This is one of my favourites." Magnussen pretended to look at invisible files he held in his hands, pantomiming turning nonexistent pages. "Oh, it’s so exciting. All those wet jobs for the CIA." Sherlock could see John's growing fury – he thought it was at Magnussen, but there must have been some renewed anger with Mary too. "Ooh! She’s gone a bit ... freelance now. Bad girl. Ah, she is so wicked. I can really see why you like her. You see?"

"So there are no documents. You don’t actually have anything here." John didn't understand. Sherlock wanted to tell him, soften the blow somehow, make everything right for John. But he had just realized himself that they were at Magnussen's mercy, subject to his whims. He couldn't meet John's eyes, let alone try to explain.

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something ...if I really need it... but mostly I just remember it all." Magnussen continued to address John, seeming to enjoy making him angry.

"I don’t understand." John had said.

"You should have that on a T-shirt."

"You just remember it all?"

"It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning." Sherlock had never felt owned before.

"But if you just know it, then you don’t have proof." Sherlock desperately wanted John to shut up.

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I’m in news, you moron. I don’t have to prove it – I just have to print it. Speaking of news, you’ll both be heavily featured tomorrow – trying to sell state secrets to me." Magnussen gloated. He walked away from them into the intimidatingly large conservatory that opened onto the patio garden "Can’t wait to see you arrested." Magnussen tossed over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, do we have a plan?" John's trust – Sherlock didn't deserve it. How had he made such a bloody mess?! "Sherlock?"

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to face John. 

"They’re taking their time, aren’t they?" Magnussen called from the conservatory. 

"I still don’t understand." John had followed Magnussen into the other room. His tone was belligerent – he really didn't understand yet.

"And there’s the back of the T-shirt." Sherlock forced himself to join them – he had to keep John from losing his temper.

"You just know things. How does that work?" Sherlock laid a hand on John's shoulder, hoping to calm him.

"I just love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it." Magnussen paused to let his words sink in. "But I REALLY love Mycroft's little brother's face. Those lips. Look at them Jawn ..." Magnussen drawled John's name lazily, poking at him. "...have you ever given in to temptation and fucked that mouth, Jawn? I'll bet you have. I'd like to fuck it."

Sherlock froze. Then berated himself for being shocked by Magnussen's crassness. John scoffed, disgusted, and walked away.

Magnussen had stepped close to Sherlock, too close, his face almost touching. "For Jawn, Sherlock." He said and licked Sherlock's face from jaw to temple. Sherlock shuddered but didn't pull away. "Bring me your pretty face, Sherlock, lean forward a bit" John turned back in time to see Sherlock comply. Sherlock closed his eyes, he didn't want to see the look on John's face. Magnussen licked Sherlock again, this time across his lips. "Mmmmm, I can taste your fear. It's exquisite."

John found his voice. "All right. Stop that!" He said. "Sherlock...!"

Magnussen ignored him."For Jawn and Mary, Sherlock. Kneel down right here." He indicated the floor in front of him, then let his hand wander over Sherlock's chest. His skin crawled. "Kneel down and open that pretty mouth." Magnussen shot an amused look at John. "Please?" 

Sherlock knew he had no choice but it was difficult to accept. Maybe Magnussen was bluffing? No, the man who had urinated in the front room of 221b would not bluff... but was Magnussen bluffing? Sherlock stared at the marble floor unable to look at John. 

John. Sherlock forced himself to nod.

"Sherlock..." John protested. "You're not really going to..."

Sherlock glanced up briefly, meeting John's eyes with a warning look. Where was Mycroft? Why was his brother late!? The one time Sherlock needed him to be there.... 

"Now, can I fuck it, Sherlock? Can I fuck your pretty face?" He held Sherlock by the collar of his shirt in one hand and pawed at Sherlock's crotch with the other. Magnussen turned his attention back to John. "It works like this, Jawn. I know who Mary hurt and killed." Magnussen leaned in and licked Sherlock's neck. "I know where to find people who hate her." He licked along Sherlock's jaw and rubbed against his flaccid cock. "I know where they live; I know their phone numbers." This time he nipped Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from flinching and crying out. John made an angry noise in his throat. "All in my Mind Palace – all of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down – and I will, Jawn ... unless Sherlock kneels down, opens his mouth and lets me fuck his face." He bit at Sherlock's neck. 

"Stop it!" John snarled.

"This is what I do to people, Jawn This is what I do to whole countries ...just because I know." Magnussen turned his full attention back to Sherlock. "Come on. Kneel, Sherlock. For John. You'll do anything for Jawn."

He would do anything for John. He'd already been willing to be blown up with him, he had given John up to keep him safe, watched him marry someone else, he would kill for him and, apparently, he would debase himself too. He'd done this particular thing before and while he'd hated it, it wasn't the worst thing he could think of. At least Magnussen wouldn't be grabbing at his cock any longer when he was on his knees. Sherlock removed his coat and crouching, placed it on the marble floor. He knelt on it in front of Magnussen, keeping his eyes downcast.

"Sherlock? No!" John's horror was almost more than Sherlock could stand – it was worse, by far, than the act itself.

"Let him. I’m sorry, John. Just ... let him." Go away, he silently pled. Don't make me do this in front of you.

"Come on. Mouth open." Sherlock opened his mouth. Magnussen started to unfasten his belt. "That's right, wider." 

Suddenly Sherlock felt himself yanked to his feet. John. "I'm not going to let you do this." John said heatedly. 

Sherlock glanced at Magnussen who looked amused. "It doesn't matter, John. Just go... go outside and let me get it over with."

"No. This isn't right." John still held him by the arm, but more gently now.

Sherlock cursed internally. What did 'right' have to do with it? John's troublesome moral compass – it was irritating. Magnussen wasn't making idle threats – he would tear John's life down, brick by brick. Sherlock had to convince him. He made his voice hard. "Do you think I've never given a blow job before? I'm a drug addict, John. This isn't the first – or the last – time I'll pay my way on my knees." 

John looked at him with shocked eyes for a moment. Then his face hardened again and he pushed his way between Sherlock and Magnussen. His head only reached Magnussen's chin, but John had never been daunted by his short stature. He was sturdy, he had been captain of his rugby team, he was combat trained – Magnussen wouldn't be able to go through him physically. "He's not doing this." John announced. "Not for me. And especially not for Mary!"

"John..."

"No, shut up, Sherlock. I'm not letting this happen."

"I can do this for Mary..." He wouldn't though. He'd do it for John.

John turned back to Sherlock with blazing eyes. "No. She shot you." Sherlock was surprised to feel John's palm pressed against his chest where the bullet had entered. After Magnussen's pawing, it felt like a healing balm. "She. Shot. You. Your heart stopped beating. You don't owe her anything." John looked at Magnussen. "Go ahead, punch my face if you need to. Or if you want a bloody blowjob so badly, call my wife. She's perfectly capable of saving herself." He started to drag Sherlock away.

"It doesn't work that way, Jawn." Magnussen drawled John's name again mockingly. He pulled a phone from his pocket. "Sherlock is on his knees, mouth open, right now, or I phone some of her old friends."

"Do it." John said. "Call. Because this –" He tightened his grip on Sherlock. "Is not happening."

"John..." Sherlock protested.

"Shut up." John demanded. "I'll suck his cock before I let you do it."

"You're forgetting about the baby."

That stopped John for a second. But he just squared his shoulders making himself a more formidable barrier between Sherlock and Magnussen. "I haven't forgotten. That doesn't change this – nothing changes this. He's not touching you." Sherlock had rarely seen John this angry – only when he'd returned from the dead with an ill-timed joke. And when he discovered his wife was the assassin who had shot his best friend.

"Well, well, Jawn. Isn't this interesting. Condemning your wife and unborn child just to save Sherlock from a little humiliation. Interesting loyalties. Especially as it's Sherlock's fault you're here to begin with. Sherlock's mistake. Maybe you have had your cock in Sherlock's pretty mouth after all – it makes some men... possessive."

Sherlock grabbed John just before he lunged at Magnussen and held him back. "Don't do this, John." He whispered in John's ear. "We need to calm down. Mycroft is coming." He felt John relax slightly in his arms. "Just... go outside and wait for him. You shouldn't be here." 

"I'm not leaving you with him, Sherlock." 

Sherlock could see Magnussen was getting impatient. "For god's sake, John, I'm not some blushing maiden you need to rescue." He said loudly enough for Magnussen to hear. Then more softly to John, "He's not bluffing, John. He will call dangerous people who want to kill Mary. This is my mistake, let me fix it."

"But where does it stop, Sherlock? Are you going to service him every time he threatens you with Mary's past? Is he going to be a regular at Baker St., pissing in the fireplace and demanding a blow job? Or will he send the helicopter to bring you here to bruise your knees on the marble every time? You never just pay a blackmailer once, Sherlock. Better to deal with Mary's past now than sell yourself to him. The price is too high."

"I'm the one paying, shouldn't it be my choice?"

"She's my wife, Sherlock. I'm not letting you pay for her mistakes. You or Mycroft."

Suddenly Magnussen was close again, his hands gripping Sherlock's arm and buttock. "Do you even know your naughty wife's real name, Jawn?" Magnussen crowed. "I do. There's only one way to save her..." He tongued Sherlock's neck again. "Sherlock wants to do it for you."

"I told you not to bloody touch him!" Sherlock, distracted by Magnussen's vile attentions, didn't react in time to stop John from taking hold of Magnussen's arm and yanking it behind his back and up, hard, effectively incapacitating him. Sherlock's heart simultaneously sank and thrilled at the sight of John getting physical.

"You've just killed your wife." Magnussen spat. "You're going to prison for espionage AND Mary is going to have old friends over for a little reunion. You only have yourself to blame." 

At last Sherlock heard the sound of helicopters approaching. He sagged with relief. John released Magnussen with a shove and Sherlock belatedly took hold of John again.

"Finally, big brother comes to your rescue." Magnussen said standing straight and brushing invisible dust off of his suit. He turned again to Sherlock, his shark's eyes dark. "I'm sure I can arrange some 'private time' when you're incarcerated, Sherlock, so we can pick this up again. Neither Jawn nor big brother will be able to interfere then." Magnussen walked to the patio doors.

"Leave it." Sherlock hissed in John's ear and held him back until he relaxed again. Only then did he release John, subtly frisking him to discover where he carried his gun. John turned to face him as he picked his coat up off the floor. John didn't speak, he only gave Sherlock an intense look – but Sherlock couldn't decipher it. They walked together out onto the patio.

Mycroft's helicopter hovered, buffeting them with wind and noise.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Stand away from that man." Of course Mycroft had a loudspeaker.

"Here we go, Sherlock!" Magnussen's shark-like eyes danced with amusement.

There was still one possibility that Sherlock could see, one way to rectify his mistakes, but it would cost him... everything. "To clarify:" He asked Magnussen. "Appledore’s vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there." 

"They’re not real. They never have been." Magnussen's delight was obscene.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Step away." Shut up, Mycroft.

"It’s fine! They’re harmless!" Magnussen shouted at the helicopter, still gloating.

"Sherlock, what do we do?" How could John still believe in him? One last possibility to make this right for John, but it meant saying goodbye again.

"Nothing!" Magnussen turned back to John, condescendingly. "There’s nothing to be done! Oh, I’m not a villain. I have no evil plan. I’m a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them! Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero this time, Sherlock!"

One last possibility, only one way to keep John safe now. He had to do it. "Oh, do your research." Sherlock shouted at Magnussen. He reached into John's coat pocket and took hold of his gun. It felt reassuringly solid in his hand. "I’m not a hero ... I’m a high-functioning sociopath." He had Magnussen's attention now. Sherlock hated him with every fiber of his being for forcing him into this. "Merry Christmas!" Sherlock raised his arm and placed the barrel of the gun against Magnussen's forehead and before he could think about it, pulled the trigger.

What happened after that? He dropped the gun and raised his hands and shouted at John to get away from him – all the police were aiming their guns at Sherlock now, it wouldn't do for John to get caught in the crossfire.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John shouted in a voice that barely sounded like John. And then in a tone so mournful it hurt, "Oh, Christ, Sherlock."

"Give my love to Mary." Sherlock looked at his friend – John's face was full of anguish. He knew what this meant for Sherlock full well. "Tell her she’s safe now." You're safe, John, that's what really matters.

John shook his head and reached a hand toward Sherlock, but Sherlock was yanked away and handcuffed before he could make contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ariane DeVere for transcribing His Last Vow.
> 
> Next chapter, Mary makes an appearance.


	4. Magnussen's Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has bad dreams for a reason.

Mary fit in John's arms. He had always liked that, always found it comforting. 

When John finally arrived back at the house in the suburbs, Mary wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

It was late on Boxing Day. John had spent a grueling 20 hours in custody, being questioned relentlessly.

"Did you and Sherlock Holmes conspire to kill Charles Agustus Magnussen?"

"No."

"Did you go to the residence of Charles Agustus Magnussen with the intention of killing him?"

"No."

"How well did you know the victim?"

"Erm, not at all. I had met him only once before, very briefly."

"Have you ever killed anyone Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor. Dr. Watson. Or Captain Watson if you prefer. Yes, I have killed people. I saw combat in Afghanistan."

Other than that, have you ever killed anyone?

"Erm, no."

"Did you know that Sherlock Holmes had a gun with him when you went to the residence of Charles Agustus Magnussen?"

"I don't believe he did have a gun."

"Do you know where he obtained the gun he used to shoot Charles Agustus Magnussen?"

"You must know it's my gun. I have all the proper permits and licenses. If you bring me my wallet, I can show you."

"Did you give your gun to Sherlock Holmes so he could shoot Charles Agustus Magnussen?"

"No. I didn't give it to him."

"How did he get it?"

"He's a gifted pickpocket. He must have taken it."

"You didn't notice?"

"If I had, I wouldn't have let him."

"Why did you take your gun to the residence of Charles Agustus Magnussen?"

"I often carry my gun when I work with Sherlock."

"Did he ask you to bring it this time?"

Sigh. "Yes."

"But he didn't tell you he intended to use it to shoot Mr. Magnussen?"

"No. I don't think he intended to shoot him. It was a 'crime of passion'... spur of the moment sort of thing."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know Sherlock."

"Why did you and Sherlock Holmes go to the residence of Charles Agustus Magnussen?" 

"We had business with him. For a case of Sherlock's."

"What sort of case?"

"Blackmail."

"Blackmail?"

"Yes."

"You were blackmailing Mr. Magnussen?"

John had had to laugh at that. "No. Magnussen was blackmailing Sherlock's client. We went there to try and resolve it."

"Did you? Resolve it?"

"No."

"What was Mr. Magnussen using for the blackmail?"

"Erm...you'd have to ask Sherlock. He didn't discuss it with me."

"Who is the client that Mr. Magnussen was blackmailing?"

"Again, you'd have to ask Sherlock."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Do you often accompany Mr. Holmes without knowing what the case is about?"

John scoffed. "Yes."

"Is something funny, Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor Watson. No, nothing about this is funny."

"Did Mr. Holmes argue with Mr. Magnussen?"

"No. Magnussen explained his system of blackmail in detail. That's all."

"Did he threaten?"

"What do you mean?"

It had gone on and on and on - through it all, he was alone. He didn't see Sherlock again. He didn't even see Mycroft. He wasn't offered counsel or a phone call. John thought they knew he wasn't being completely truthful, but no one challenged him. There was no way that John would tell them everything, and not just to protect Mary – he didn't plan on telling Mary everything either. Some of it would stay between John and Sherlock. 

"Where have you been?" Mary said into his shoulder. "I've been so worried. You didn't answer your mobile. Sherlock didn't text me back."

"Mycroft didn't call you? I guess he had his hands full. I'm sorry, Mary." John said, pulling back to look at her. "They took my phone. They wouldn't let me call anyone."

"Who?"

"I don't know - Mycroft's people... maybe. They asked questions, they didn't answer any. Is there anything to eat? I'm starving."

"There's leftover kebab. John...?" She followed him into the kitchen. "What's going on? I fell asleep and you, Sherlock and Mycroft disappeared from the Christmas party. You were gone all night. I thought you might have gone back to Baker St." 

"Yeah. Sorry about that - I didn't think it would take more than an hour or two. Sherlock arranged for us to see Magnussen."

John felt more than saw Mary go completely still. It made his hair stand on end. "What happened?" She asked.

"Magnussen's dead." John said tiredly. "And all his files are dead with him. You don't have to worry about him any longer."

"Dead... how?" She asked cautiously.

He looked at her. This was why Sherlock had done it - Mary had compromised them all. "Sherlock shot him." He said.

"He..! With you there?"

"Yes." John said crisply. "He didn't discuss it with me, he just... did it." He saw the expression on her face. "Don't fret, Mary, he made sure there were lots of witnesses." John saw her relief and hated her for it a little. He turned away and looked numbly into the fridge. He didn't feel hungry any longer. "I need a bath." He said. "And about 12 hours in bed." He closed the fridge. "By the way, Sherlock sends his love. That's the last thing he said before they arrested him." John wandered away from her towards the bathroom.

Only then did John remember that his clothes and dopp kit were still at the flat on Baker St. He had planned to collect it all this morning, move himself back into their house properly. He swore quietly to himself and started the bath.

Twenty minutes later John was in bed. He could tell Mary wanted to talk more, but he was simply too exhausted. He put it out of his mind and drifted...

John was in Magnussen's conservatory. He could hear Magnussen, but it was too dark to see him. He was still explaining why Sherlock had to have sex with him - "For Mary, Sherlock. Do it for Mary." John saw them then, on the lip of the roof of St. Barts. Sherlock was shirtless and Magnussen was licking his face and telling him what he would do if he didn't take off his pants. "She's been so wicked..." Sherlock looked miserable, embarrassed - he wouldn't look at John. Janine was kissing him, Sherlock didn't like it, but Magnussen didn't stop. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pressed it to his crotch and licked Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock shuddered, but didn't pull away. He just let it happen. John tried to intercede, but he was on the ground outside St. Bart's, explosives strapped to his chest, Moriarty's voice in his ear, watching helplessly. He shouted for Magnussen to stop, for Sherlock to tell him what was going on, but all Sherlock would say was "it's a trick, John, just a trick. Just...let him..." Magnussen kept molesting Sherlock. Then John heard the gunshot. But it wasn't Magnussen going down, it was Sherlock with a bullet hole in his chest, jumping, falling to the ground five stories below and Mary was running away through the vast conservatory. John tried to help Sherlock, but hands held him back. John was barely able to feel for a pulse before he slumped to the bloody sidewalk bereft. He sat in his chair in 221b and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter goes back to the hospital. What will John remember?


	5. Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth about Major Sholto!

The nurse woke John. It was morning, sun glare in the window lighting up the room. His chest hurt when he breathed.

The nurse was taking his vitals and noting them on his chart. He didn’t recognize her from the day before...but he realized with relief that he remembered yesterday. He could still form memories, his brain wasn’t irrevocably damaged. There was a good chance he’d regain at least some of his memory from the last six years. That was good, really good.

Still it was extremely disorienting to feel certain that he’d just been shot in Afghanistan, yet to know rationally that all the evidence pointed to the contrary. The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming – John couldn’t help but wonder if he was insane. He wanted more than anything for his mates to jump through the door laughing at this ridiculous hoax they’d perpetrated on him. 

John marshaled all his professional remove, all the discipline he’d learned as a doctor and as a soldier, and put the panic AWAY. Tamped it down good. This was a medical issue, worrisome, yes, but nothing to panic about. Approaching the problem calmly would get a better result. He could be detached, approach his memory loss like a doctor, not like a bloody mental patient.

“Your friend brought you some things from home.” The nurse, Laura, said. “How about I help you to the bathroom and you can put your pajamas on.”

“Oh god, yes.” Getting out of this bed and the awful hospital gown sounded amazing.

She helped him stand and walk across the room – something that took way more energy than John thought necessary. It felt fantastic to piss, never felt right in a bedpan. And the pajamas were soft, slightly worn flannel and very comfortable. 

In the bog, John examined himself in the mirror. His hair was different than he remembered – longer and with quite a bit more gray. It was his face, yes, but it had seen more wear than the last time he’d looked in a mirror. He took off the hospital gown, and there it was, above and between the surgical incisions, an ugly, puckered, long–healed scar from a gunshot wound, right where he remembered being hit. 

So that settled it. This wasn’t an elaborate joke (John’s late night visitor had really made him wonder).

After reading the (his!) blog last night (until his chest hurt so badly he had to press the button for morphine) he wanted to remember. Mostly. John wasn’t keen on that Sherlock bloke claiming they were together...but if John were completely honest with himself, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Sherlock’s listing of John’s sexual history with men had been disturbingly accurate.

Major Sholto. James. 

John had spent the last four years repressing those memories (or the last four years that he currently remembered). It was difficult to think about his painfully naive younger self and the unacknowledged crush he’d had on the commander. The affair had started like those things always did, two pissed and horny mates giving each other a helping hand. 

Or in James' case, helping mouth. Afterward John saw James closing down, retreating from the experience – John didn’t want that. He admired Sholto, he liked him. A lot. He didn’t want things to be weird the next day, didn’t want to lose a friend. So he’d kissed the man. Deeply, tasting himself on James' lips. After the slightest hesitation an astonished James joined in. He kissed John like a starving man at a buffet.

They had an on again, off again affair for three years – mostly on, really. There was a lot that had been good about it. But also some bad: Sholto was very conscious of the rules and ethics he was breaking by sleeping with a subordinate; they had to rigorously keep it secret which made seeing each other difficult; and they both had internalized homophobia to deal with. John’s made him tell himself they were just having fun when he knew he felt more. Sholto’s was worse. He loathed himself for wanting John, for wanting to be with a man so badly. Sometimes he took it out on John. The ugly, whispered rows that occasionally devolved into fistfights, John could really have lived without those.

It ended abruptly. Sholto’s wife found out. Sholto asked for a transfer to another command, and that was that. John was both completely devastated and vastly relieved.

After that, John’s easygoing attitude about his sexuality was gone. There were no more ‘helping hands,’ no more late night blow jobs in the shower, no more lingering glances with fit strangers. No more being outweighed by a lover, no more contusions from sex, no more nine inch height differences. John was straight, god dammit! He liked women – he loved women! It was harder to get a leg over maybe, but easier in every other respect.

So how had he ended up with Sherlock?

Nurse Laura helped John back to the bed, telling him that breakfast would be delivered soon. “Oh – your friend spent the night on a hard chair in the hall – you should tell him he could use the recliner.” She gestured at the vinyl chair near John’s bed.

“Can you ask him to come in – if he’s still there.” John wasn’t sure if he wanted him to still be there or not. He heard the nurse talking in the hall.

The door to his room opened immediately and Sherlock stood in the frame. John studied him – he was attractive, John had to admit, with dark, disheveled hair and pale skin. His eyes were piercing, it was difficult to tell what color they were, gray maybe. Prominent cheekbones, prominent lips – his face really shouldn’t work, all the parts oddly shaped, but the whole was pleasing. He wore a black suit that fit his thin frame perfectly – it wasn’t in the same price range as the fussy bloke’s suit last night, but it was still expensive, bespoke. And he was tall. OF COURSE he was tall. Why couldn’t he have a short boyfriend?! (Or a girlfriend! John thought rebelliously. Why couldn’t I wake up with a beautiful woman telling me we were TOGETHER together?!)

“Come in.” John said and nodded to the chair on his uninjured side. “Thanks for bringing the pajamas. You have no idea how good it is to get that gown off.”

Sherlock nodded but took the seat without speaking. He seemed somewhat lost, unsure. John had read enough of the blog to know that Sherlock was some kind of savant, brilliant at solving puzzles – his preferred puzzles were crimes – but not so adept with the social graces. It seemed to be John’s job to go along and smooth things over best he could (and occasionally draw a gun). Sherlock had said as much the day before: ‘you’re the one who explains these things, John.’ John wondered how exactly he’d gotten that job. “I’m sorry about yesterday.” He said. 

“No, it’s...fine.” Sherlock said. “How are you feeling?”

John smiled a little. “Relieved – that I remember yesterday. Hopeful that I’ll start remembering other things. Sore. Breathing is exhausting.”

Just then breakfast arrived and the attendant bustled around, wheeling John’s table over and setting out his food. It didn’t look especially appetizing, but John realized he was hungry.

“How...do you know what happened to me? Were you there?” He asked Sherlock.

“Yes. I was there.”

“Tell me. Wait – can you open this?” John held up the jam pot. “It’ll be a challenge one–handed.” 

Sherlock smiled and took it. He opened the pot and began spreading it on John’s toast. Which John thought was a bit presumptuous until he remembered that Sherlock must know quite well how John liked his toast.

“Short version – you were pushed through a window and fell two stories.” Sherlock said, as he worked.

“What’s the long version?”

“Here.” He absently pushed the toast to the front of the tray and picked up John’s tea – took a look and added some milk. “We were confronting Matilde Vaughn – the Southwark spree killer –”

“Wait – Southwark spree killer?” John tasted his tea. It was perfect.

“Yes, a four–day killing spree that began in Southwark. Mostly unrelated people all killed in different places with the same gun, seemingly at random. 18 dead in total. The police had nothing, London was in a panic – that’s when they called me.” 

“Who, the police?”

“Yes, of course. We confronted Matilde in her flat –”

“We? You and me, we?”

“Yes, of course. Follow along.” John had to smile at the man’s impatience. He tried the toast. Sherlock had that right too. “We apprehended Matilde. Lestrade – Detective Inspector Lestrade – was on the way, but Matilde’s husband showed up unexpectedly. He knocked me down and tried to run off with Matilde, but you did that thing where you grabbed his arm, spun him around and pushed him against the wall – it’s very arousing when you do that, John. I was impatient for Lestrade to get there so we could go home and have sex. I wasn’t even going to mention that we didn’t HAVE to go home first – The Vaughn’s flat was obviously going to be vacant...”

“Sherlock. Skip to where I get injured.”

Sherlock huffed slightly but moved on. “Matilde’s husband was a big man, barrel–chested and strong. I noticed he had missing fingers and burn scars, so I assumed he was a victim of torture and as such could be cowed easily. I got that wrong – it does happen – he was actually congenitally insensitive to pain to a large degree and as a result would unknowingly injure himself on a regular basis. Torture is more common, I played the odds. 

“I was, admittedly, distracted by your... physical display... I didn’t notice right away when he practically dislocated his shoulder to get out of the hold. You had him cornered with your gun, but he rushed you, didn’t even feel the bullet. He pushed you through an open window and you fell. You hit a bin in the alley – that’s what crushed your ribs and broke your arm. The head injury is most likely from hitting the pavement afterward.”

“The bullet? I shot him?”

“Yes. He ran at you.”

“How is he? Is he in hospital too?”

“He bled out, the body is probably at Barts already. I can find out if you –”

“No! No. No need. I killed him....” A civilian. John wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“He attacked you! John, he could have killed you.” Sherlock abortively reached for John’s hand, then remembered himself and pulled back. He looked down at his lap, collecting himself. “I forget that you aren’t YOU.” He looked up, his eyes both sharply assessing and filled with pain. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

It was plain that the man loved him, which DID make John uncomfortable. How had this happened? HOW had he ended up with a bloke? John pushed the questions away and tried to smile. “It’s these ribs that are making me uncomfortable.” He said. “Have you eaten yet? There’s too much food here just for me.”

“I’m not hungry.” Sherlock said.

“You ate last night?” John had meant it rhetorically.

“No.” Sherlock said softly.

“No?” John looked him over. “You’re too thin to be skipping meals. Here, have the banana at least.” Sherlock took the fruit, trying to hide the anguish on his face. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” Sherlock said. “Just ...familiar.”

“I’ve tried to get you to eat before.” John said. 

Sherlock nodded slightly. “You’re quite irritating about it.”

John regarded him closely. “Eat the banana.” He said. “And I won’t ask if you’ve eaten anything since I went out the window.” Which was as good as asking, he realized, when Sherlock started peeling the banana instead of denying it. “After you eat that – and the eggs – will you tell me how we became friends?” Sherlock looked more hopeful immediately. “After the banana and the eggs.”

Eating seemed to remind Sherlock that he was hungry – he ate the beans and potatoes as well as the eggs. John restrained himself from making a joke about the quality of the food – he didn’t want to put Sherlock off. Food in his belly would make everything seem a little bit easier to deal with.

After he finished, he drank half the tumbler of water then sat back.

“Go ahead.” John prompted.

“Do you remember Mike Stamford ....”

John listened. Sherlock really did have a beautiful voice, it was nice to lie back and let it roll around him. After a while – about the time Sherlock was describing walking into a swimming pool late at night to find John with explosives strapped to his chest (!), John had to push the button for more morphine. His chest slowly stopped throbbing and John lost the plot a bit. When he picked it up again, Sherlock was just returning from a long trip abroad.

“I saw you in the restaurant and all at once, I felt how very much I’d... I’d missed you, how lonely it had been – I hadn’t let myself think about it before. I had had to get through it, you see. But that was over and you were right there and it HURT... I should have walked over and told you that, just that. But I was stupid... afraid. I had been gone for YEARS. What if you didn’t care anymore? I realized how very important you were to me at the same moment I realized how unimportant I must be to you. So I made a stupid joke out of it. We had always laughed together, I guess I thought....” Sherlock scoffed. “I was ridiculous – I pretended to be a waiter. You were trying to propose to Mary and I interrupted ...”

“Wait, wait... propose to Mary? Who’s Mary?”

“Your girlfriend... fiancé... now she’s your ex–wife. 

“Wife? ...were you and I... together – TOGETHER together – before then? Before you’d left?”

“No. Not like that.” Sherlock frowned. “There was something between us then, but... I didn’t know... It wasn’t my.... it was never physical.” He shook his head at the inadequacy of his words.

How long had the John he couldn’t remember denied their attraction, relying on the other man’s naïveté to keep their friendship platonic? He hated himself suddenly, Sherlock might not have realized what was going on, but there was no way John hadn’t. Impulsively John reached out and covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. He felt Sherlock become still beneath his touch, felt his held breath, his quickening pulse. John slowly pulled his hand back. Sherlock exhaled audibly. “Sorry.” He said. “Erm... it must have been difficult for you to be around M.... my fiancé.”

“John...” Sherlock was still staring at the fingers John had touched. “I didn’t understand... I had no expectations... of that sort. And I’d hurt you, being away so long, out of contact. It couldn’t be the same as it was before. And Mary... she loved you. I understood that. We – she and I – accommodated each other. It made you happy.”

John felt like he’d been a complete shit. He MUST have known... “I’m s –”

What time is it?” Sherlock interrupted John’s apology, picking up John’s phone and looking at the time. “I spoke to her last night – Mary – told her about the memory thing. She wanted me to ask if she should bring Jane by to visit, or if that would be too much.”

“Jane?”

Sherlock’s face clouded again. “Your daughter.”

John just stared. “Wait... I... what?!”

“Your daughter. With Mary.”

“That’s...you didn’t tell me...” John tried to assimilate this. A daughter! “Jane was my mother’s name.” He said. 

Sherlock nodded. “You see her almost every day – you pick her up from her carer in the afternoons. You and Mary split weekends – and if Mary has plans or just needs a break, Jane stays with us. You’re a good father, John.” Sherlock assured him. “Mary said she’s been asking for you.” 

“How ...how old is she?”

“Mmmm. Toddler?”

“You don’t know how old my daughter is?”

“Not... really my area.”

“But she talks?!”

“A bit. She can yell – she has your temper.”

John smiled. “Yes – yes, of course I want to see her.”

“I’ll text Mary.” He took John’s phone and started tapping and swiping.

“That’s MY phone – won’t that be confusing?”

“She’s used to it.” Sherlock said without looking up. “There.” He set the phone aside.

“I’m not with the mother – Why? What happened?” Did YOU happen, John wondered. Had he left his family for this man?

“That’s...complicated.”

“Short version, then.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Mary was an assassin for the CIA. She didn’t mention that before the wedding. I discovered her past when I found her... revisting her former profession. She shot me. I survived. And, despite her efforts, made sure you knew everything. It was a blow, but you tried to save your marriage. In vain, I’m afraid. You started divorce proceedings after Jane was born and moved back in with me.”

“What...?” This wasn’t what John had expected. This was NOTHING like what he had expected. He tried to digest the information. “She shot you?!”

“Yes. In the chest.”

“You seem pretty cavalier about being shot.”

“Mary shot me so you wouldn’t find out her secrets, John, so you wouldn’t find out she’d lied to you from the start – she knew you’d hate her. I can well understand the desire not to lose you, I assure you.” Sherlock took a breath, calming himself. “She easily could have killed me, John, and you never would have known. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Having survived, I made sure you knew, of course, and although I advocated for you to forgive her, she did lose you eventually. So letting me live cost her her happy marriage. Sometime after that, you and I... began.” Sherlock paused again, then went on with studied carelessness. “However, I did something at great cost to myself simply to ensure her continued safety, so we called it even. Mary and I get on quite well. Better than you do.”

“That’s... insane.”

“Basically.”

The nurse walked in with several attendants. “Time for your MRI, Dr. Watson.” She announced. John was relieved to have some time to think about everything Sherlock had told him. A daughter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - the airfield farewell.


	6. To The Very Best Of Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What REALLY happened when John and Sherlock say goodbye.

It was cold at the airfield, Sherlock remembered, the January wind bitter, but he turned his face to the weak winter sunlight. He had been locked away from the sun for weeks.

Sherlock had lingered in the showers the first few days, trying to scrub Magnussen off his skin. Not just his saliva, but his GAZE. Those shark’s eyes had devoured him whole. It was disgusting. He wanted to delete it, but John would remember.

There had been nothing to do in his tiny cell, except dwell on the decision he’d made, what he’d done. Sherlock had killed before, but in extremis, never in cold blood. He couldn’t feel sorry that Magnussen was dead, the man was as dangerous as he was loathsome. But the act had changed him, changed Sherlock. He felt that he’d lost something important – not his freedom or John or London, though losing those chafed badly – something internal. He spent entire days poking at the wound inside him, like one would tongue the space where a tooth had gone missing. He didn’t know what used to be there – would your tongue remember one specific tooth among 32? Its absence defined it. Sherlock felt around the edges, trying to work out what he’d lost, but he couldn’t. It was gone. It was just gone.

Onward. 

Mycroft came to visit. It was dreadful. They wanted him to go back to the dungeon in Serbia where he’d been tortured, finish up that job and a few others to boot. Sherlock agreed. He’d given up his future when he’d shot Magnussen, Sherlock had known that before he pulled the trigger. It was an informed choice.

Still, it was a blow. Going back to the torture chamber. Not the way he’d want to die, given other options.

At least it was easy to get drugs in Serbia. Cocaine would make the days go faster. The worst part about prison was having to be sober for every single, interminable, boring second.

Sherlock asked to see John again. To say goodbye properly this time. The last request of the condemned man, so to speak. Mycroft said he’d see what he could do. 

John hadn’t come to whatever prison MI6 or whomever had him stashed away in. Sherlock had despaired as the days went by. But finally on the way to the plane that would take him back to Serbia – just as Sherlock was calculating how long it would take to score heroin after landing – Mycroft had said that John and Mary would see him off. That seemed fitting somehow. 

It was only a few days shy of the anniversary of first meeting John Watson. He remembered his first sight of the man – he had easily deduced the outline: soldier, doctor, wounded, invalided, psychosomatic limp, meager means, drunken sibling, a need for action ... but he couldn’t see the friend he could laugh with, perform for, depend on, he couldn’t see the man who would save his life, who would offer to sacrifice himself to save Sherlock, who had believed in him, stood by him no matter what – all things that confused Sherlock, astonished him. No one had ever treated him the way John did. 

He had watched the car pull up, watched John get out. Alone. Just John then.

John walked over looking uncertain, glancing at Mycroft. He seemed tired. 

“Mary didn’t come?” Sherlock asked. After what he’d done for her, Sherlock was surprised.

“I asked her not to.” John said. “I wanted to see you... on my own.”

Sherlock nodded. “Since this is likely to be the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson...” He said to his brother, watching John wince at his words. “...would you mind if we took a moment?” Mycroft looked startled – had he really thought Sherlock could do this in front of him? Maybe, the man had never had a friend, after all. Finally Mycroft nodded and taking the security man with him, walked away from the plane.

“So, here we are.” John said, stepping closer. 

So much to say to him and no more time. Sherlock suddenly felt the full weight of that – no more time. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” Sherlock said. 

“Sorry?”

“That’s the whole of it – if you’re looking for baby names.” Sherlock always loved making John laugh. And a joke was easier.

“No, we’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said softly. “Okay.” He was nervous suddenly. He looked away trying to ground himself. Being with John had never been difficult before, why was it now? He didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Yeah.” John broke the awkward silence. “Actually, I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

“No, neither can I.”

“The game is over.” John said, trying to hide his sadness.

“The game is never over, John ...” Sherlock said and for a second he believed it. “...but there may be some new players now. It’s okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end.”

“What’s that?” John asked.

“It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me.”

“Nice.” John glanced towards Mycroft.

“He was a rubbish big brother.” Sherlock said. He was rewarded with a smile.

“So what about you, then?” John asked. “Where are you actually going now?”

They hadn’t told him then. Sherlock didn’t know if he was grateful or not. No, he was – John would be angry if he knew. He didn’t want John to be angry. Sherlock had walked into this with his eyes open. “Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe.” He said, forcing himself to sound casual. It made the scars on his back itch.

“For how long?” John asked.

Sherlock couldn’t meet his eyes. “Six months, my brother estimates. He’s never wrong.”

“And then what?” John asked. 

Sherlock looked at him. He’d lied to John about dying once already. It was kinder to lie again. “Who knows?” He said, looking away.

John nodded, but looked upset. 

“John, there’s something ... I should say; I–I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now...” 

***I love you, my dearest John. I’ve loved you for so long and it has been wonderful and it has been EVERYTHING and it hurts so much to leave you again...***

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” He said instead. 

“It’s not. John said, giggling and Sherlock was transported back to that first night, laughing together in the front hallway, laughing so hard he had to wipe away tears. He had never laughed like that before John.

“It was worth a try.”

“We’re not naming our daughter after you.” John protested.

“I think it could work.” 

John laughed again. Then he met Sherlock’s eyes... and the levity was gone. Maybe he should have said everything after all. It’s not like he’d ever been very good at hiding it – not like he even knew what it all even meant. There was just too much – how do you tell someone that they changed your life so profoundly that it would never be the same, and never be complete, without him?

“To the very best of times, John.” Sherlock said and extended his hand. It was the best he could do. 

John hesitated for a long time. So long, Sherlock thought maybe he wouldn’t take his hand. Then John stepped closer, he took Sherlock’s hand in both of his and stared at it for a moment. Then he intertwined their fingers, Sherlock’s long, pale fingers and John’s shorter, calloused ones. He lifted his other hand to Sherlock’s face and touched his cheek with light fingertips. Sherlock gasped slightly at the contact, and John moved even closer, his hand falling down around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulling him close. Sherlock found he had an arm around John’s back and he could feel John’s ragged breath on his neck, the clutch of their entwined hands between them. He tucked his head and buried his face in John’s hair, memorizing the scent. They had embraced briefly at John’s wedding, but this was ... very different. 

“Be careful out there, Sherlock.” John said roughly. “And come back.” John held him more tightly for a second then released him, surprising Sherlock by stepping away. “I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll always be waiting for you.” John glanced at him once more then nodded and turned away.

Sherlock thought then that maybe John understood everything he hadn’t said. Maybe he always had. 

When Sherlock emerged from the plane 10 minutes later, his crime unexpectedly pardoned, free to live his life in London as long as he pursued Moriarty, he caught John’s eye and smiled slightly – a private smile just for his friend.

John nodded, obviously relieved, but he didn’t smile back. He seemed more tired than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a special thank you to Ariane DeVere for transcribing His Last Vow.


	7. John's Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary has questions. John makes a realization.

Mary had questions.

Some questions John had expected: “I thought you said Moriarty was dead?”, “Could it really be him?”, “Do you think he faked his death too?”, “How could he have done it?”, “Where has he been?”, “It’s just a tiny bit exciting, don’t you think?”, “No?”, “Really? Semtex?”, “Are you worried?”

Others weren’t quite what John had thought they’’d be: “Turned the plane around?”, “Pardoned?”, “Just like that?”, “Is that where you’ve been? With Sherlock?”, Of course I’m happy for him – I don’t seem happy?”

In the days and weeks after that, Mary’s questions changed. Increasingly she asked: “What’s wrong?” – the unspoken “...WITH YOU?” loud in John’s ears.

She might say: “What’s up?” or “What’s going on?” or “Do you feel a bit peaky?”, but they all meant the same thing: “What’s wrong with you?”

There was also: “Why won’t you talk to me?” and “Where have you been?”, “Haven’t you been sleeping well?”, “Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”, “You never worried about waking me up before, why now?”, “Another nightmare?”, “Do you want to tell me about it?”, “Have you been drinking?”, “Have you been with Sherlock?”, “Why didn’t you just say so?”, “What do you mean, ‘out?’”, “Where are you going?”, “What’s WRONG?!”

The best questions though, John’s personal favorites, came when he suggested they try couples counseling: “Are you bloody kidding me?”, “Are you an idiot?” “Talk about what?”, “Have you even thought about this?”, “How would that bloody go?”, “Your feelings are hurt because I didn’t tell you I used to be a bloody ‘assassin?!’” (The air quotes around ‘assassin’ was a particular favorite.), “You really think you can keep it secret?”, “Do you just want to punish me some more?”, “You know why you married ME, ask yourself this – why did I marry YOU?”, “What do you mean, what do I mean?”, “Where are you going?!”...

John tried to reclaim the feeling he’d had at Christmas when they had reconciled – reignite the excitement about their future together. And he WAS truly excited about the baby, about being a father. It was enough, he told himself, to build on. 

But circumstances conspired against his resolve. Mary’s baby shower was thrown by Janine. Janine knew Sherlock had used her to gain access to Magnussen’s penthouse, she did not know that Mary had done the same. But John knew. Seeing Janine brought it all back – Sherlock lying on the floor, bleeding from the bullet hole Mary had put in his chest. Why did Mary have to shoot him? She DIDN’T have to, she CHOSE to. She shouldn’t have. Sherlock had died, his heart had stopped.

“Why are you bringing this up now, John?”, “Didn’t you say the past was the past?”, “Sherlock doesn’t blame me, why should you?”, “What does morphine have to do with anything?”, “If ‘Sherlock would shoot HIMSELF for three months of morphine,’ why is this even an issue?”, “You don’t think YOU enable his drug addiction?”, “Wait, you think I WANTED to shoot him?”, “Why would you say that?”, “If I meant to kill him, don’t you think he’d be dead?”, “Do you actually think I’m jealous of Sherlock?!”, “Have I EVER acted jealous?”, “Do I have reason to be jealous?”, “Is there something you need to tell me, John?”, “I don’t know, why DOES everyone think you’re a couple?!”

Sherlock would never have killed Magnussen if it weren’t for Mary and the past she’d lied about, he never even would have gone to Appledore. And he NEVER would have submitted to Magnussen’s disgusting pawing and licking if not for Mary. 

“What do you mean ‘after everything he’s done for me?!’”, “What has he done for me except endanger my husband?”, “Did you forget he was pardoned?”, “John, you DO know he did it for YOU – you don’t really think he does anything for anyone other than himself or you?!”

Magnussen had gotten into his head, John knew. He hadn’t said anything really, but his insinuations – she’s so naughty, she’s gone freelance, all those wet jobs – John couldn’t get them out of his head. Maybe he should have looked to see what was on the fob Mary had given him – knowing for certain couldn’t be worse than the speculation.

John hated the rows with Mary, but he knew retreating into himself wouldn’t solve anything. He made an appointment with Ella, his therapist from before. He hadn’t seen her since right after he’d met Mary. Catching her up took some time – Ella was truly happy for John that Sherlock had come back. She asked if John had felt betrayed, and talking about his ambivalent feelings at Sherlock’s return felt really good. 

He didn’t tell Ella that Mary lied to him about her past as a paid murderer and had shot Sherlock when he discovered it, he told her that Mary had lied about her past marriage and sexual history and Sherlock had discovered that Mary had cheated on John since the wedding. He couldn’t imagine that that would feel any worse.

“I want to forgive her. I’ve tried. I’m trying. I love her – I want to make a future with her and our baby... I spent almost three months living apart...”

“With Sherlock?”

“What? Yeah. She actually threatened him, Sherlock, threatened to... I don’t even know what... to keep him from telling me. And Sherlock advocated for her! It was difficult getting there, but I really thought I was in a good place. I’m so excited about being a father... I want that. I talked with Mary about leaving her past behind and it seemed like it would work.”

“What happened.”

John felt the anger swell inside him again. He took a moment to master it. “The man she... she cheated with. I had a run in with him. The things he said about her... I can’t get it out of my mind. It wasn’t any different from what Mary told me herself, but he was ... vile. He... he IMPOSED himself on Sherlock. Tried to blackmail Sherlock into sex to... to stay away from Mary and me. And Sherlock was going to do it! If I hadn’t stopped it...!”

“You rescued Sherlock?”

“Rescued? No. He made it clear he was just doing it to protect me, and I couldn’t have that. Sherlock so obviously dreaded his... attentions....”

“So if Sherlock wanted it for himself, you would have felt differently.”

“Sherlock DOESN’T want it, though. He’s never wanted it. He’s asexual.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m... What are you getting at?”

“Just that Sherlock being asexual lets you ‘off the hook’ regarding any romantic feelings you might have for him.”

“Oh, seriously!? You too? Again!?”

“John...”

“I can’t believe I have to say it again – I’m married, with a child on the way. I. AM. NOT. GAY! Two men can have a close friendship without wanting to bugger each other!”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. You’re here to talk about Mary.”

John tried to calm himself down again. What had he done to make EVERYONE think he and Sherlock EVER would... he just didn’t want to think about it anymore.

“This man tried to blackmail Sherlock... had you considered that he might have blackmailed your wife for sex as well?” Ella asked.

“Oh, he did. He definitely did. But she could have just TOLD me about her past, couldn’t she?! She didn’t HAVE to fuck him. She chose to.”

Ella scribbled on her pad for a moment. “Mary preferred to sleep with her blackmailer than to tell you about her past. What does that tell you, John?”

John thought about it for a second. “She didn’t trust me enough. Instead of just... coming clean and dealing with the consequences, she chose to do something immeasurably worse, unspeakably worse. I can deal with her past. It’s her choices NOW that I’m having problems with.”

John realized he was at an impasse.

–––

John had nightmares every night now. He had been plagued by nightmares before – after being shot in Afghanistan, after Moriarty kidnapped him and strapped a bomb to his chest, after Sherlock jumped off St. Barts – but now his subconscious was on overdrive, conflating Mary and Moriarty, replaying that night at Appledore, bits of Afghanistan mixing in... John treating soldiers hit by an IED while Mary on his radio tells John what to say until the explosives strapped to his chest go off... Sherlock’s jump from St. Barts twisting through everything, John’s helplessness on the ground magnified by Magnussen’s taunting....

One dream, though – a new one – troubled John especially. It started with a memory that he had largely repressed. It was a good memory from a relationship he no longer cared to remember. It was more than good, it was one of the few moments in his life that had felt perfect while it was happening and that afterwards he had treasured. The dream brought the memory back to the forefront of his mind and it unsettled him.

John had been seeing James Sholto for about nine months when John was sent to a conference in Germany. James surprised him, showing up at the opening reception and slipping John a key card to his hotel room – a romantic gesture from a man not given to them. John left the reception and skipped the conference sessions the next day, so they had almost 20 uninterrupted hours together. They wrangled in the king sized bed, then went out for a late dinner on foot, enjoying the temperate European weather together. They found a little Indonesian restaurant, a novelty for soldiers stationed in Afghanistan, and ate a huge amount. They took the long way back to the hotel, walking side by side in the moonlight. They slept together – something they weren’t able to do on base – and in the morning they had a lie-in, cuddling lazily, then fucking then cuddling again. They went out for lunch, this time to a biergarten for sausages and beer. Back at the hotel, they had time for a quickie and a bit of snogging – in John’s room this time – then James had to go back. The surprise, the happiness that they both felt being together, the TIME – at the base they’d steal an hour or two every few days – having TIME to walk and talk and eat as well as time for lots of sex was absolutely luxurious. It was decadent. It showed John what the relationship could be if they had let it.

In this dream, John wakes in that hotel room next to James. It’s a lovely morning, he can see the pastel colors of dawn through the windows. James wakes and smiles, runs his hand over John’s hair. John knows he loves him and at that moment, that feels right. They lie in, snogging and cuddling and it’s lazy and sweet until James wants to be fucked. He loves being fucked. John puts James' long legs over his shoulders and for the first time they make love face–to–face. It’s marvelous to be able to see him, to kiss him. James says “oh, John...oh, John...” He’s so tight and hot and slippery and his hands clutch at John’s arms. John carefully lowers himself so they’re chest to chest and kisses Jim’s chin. “Harder...” James wants more. John lifts himself again, but now Sherlock is beneath him. He moves his hips against John and his silvery eyes glaze with pleasure...

John was so surprised he woke himself up. He was hard. None of this was right – he hadn’t thought about James that way in years. And Sherlock! He wasn’t like that, he wasn’t sexual. And more to the point, John wasn’t interested. Now even his own subconscious was acting like he and Sherlock were a couple – what the bloody hell! He was angry and out of sorts all day.

The next time he dreamed it, he didn’t wake up. Dream Sherlock wasn’t asexual. Dream Sherlock wanted John as much as John wanted Sherlock. Within the dream that made perfect sense. They made love on the white sheets in the sun washed hotel room, Sherlock moaning John’s name.... and John woke up achingly hard. Lying next to Mary in the dark, John resolutely ignored his arousal, tried to will it away.

He had the dream more often. Sherlock writhing under him, touching John’s face, calling out his name. Sherlock came, arching backwards on the sheets, but instead of semen, his chest was covered in blood from a bullet wound and Sherlock was dying...

John woke crying out, hard and horrified by the woman sleeping next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the hospital - where John has important guests and Sherlock remembers their first kiss.


	8. Duty of Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has important visitors. Sherlock remembers their first time.

The neurologist didn’t think there was anything organically wrong with John’s brain. That was good. She took him through some techniques that might help him recover all or some of his memories. But it essentially came down to time. John had to give it time. With time most people improved. 

He didn’t get back to his room until quite late in the afternoon. John was tired and hungry and his bladder was full. He felt cranky. John didn’t want to take it out on Sherlock or anyone else, but the thought of seeing people right now was exhausting. 

John’s lunch had been delivered while he was out. It was cold. Excellent! There was a nurse in his room – a different one from last night and this morning. 

“Can you help me get to the loo?” He asked her. “I can probably make it by myself, but if I can’t...”

“OK.” She said. She sounded a little put out which didn’t help John’s mood at all.

“I just need a spotter.” He said more sharply than he intended. “Sorry. I’m more tired than I realized, I guess.”

The nurse helped him stand up and let him keep his hand on her shoulder as he walked across the room. She rolled his IV stand with him, making sure it didn’t come loose. He left the door ajar, but closed it enough for privacy. He struggled with the pajamas. He felt grubby. He wanted a proper wash, but he wasn’t going to get it until his incisions healed a bit more. He wet a flannel and rubbed it over his face. He was all stubbly.

“Nurse, would you be able to look in that duffel over there and see if there’s a dopp kit or even a toothbrush? Thanks.”

She knelt by the bag and rummaged through it. “Your laptop is in here.” She called. “Yes,” she said standing. “Sherlock packed your dopp kit.” She handed it to him.

“God bless, Sherlock.” John said absently, taking it into the bathroom. He spent the better part of fifteen minutes cleaning himself up. When he emerged, the nurse was still there. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to wait.” He needed to lean on her more heavily on the way back to the bed. She was pretty, blonde with intelligent eyes, about his age. “Thank you so much.” He said as she helped him swing his legs onto the bed and lie back. She pulled the blanket over him.

“You should take a little morphine for the pain.” She said.

“I’m fine for now.”

“You’re not. John, you’re white as a sheet. And you’re clenching your jaw that way you do...” She trailed off. John was staring at her hard. 

“Jesus.” He said. “You’re not a nurse, are you? Have we met? Are you someone I should know?”

She looked sad and kind of pissed off all at once. “Yes, John. We’ve met.” She said tartly.

“I’m so sorry – I don’t remember.”

Sherlock burst through the door carrying a little girl in his arms. She was shrieking with delight as he swooped across the room. “We’ve been visiting the morgue. How many corpses were there, Jane?” Sherlock asked. 

“five.” Jane said uncertainly.

“Yes! Five corpses. Look – Daddy’s back.” Sherlock told her swooping her towards the bed.

“More!” The child demanded. “Ock, more!” 

“No. Time to visit daddy.” Sherlock pointed to John and the child reached out. 

“Daddy!” She cried.

“And look, mummy’s here too.”

“Oh bloody fucking christ.” John said under his breath. He took his eyes off the girl to look sheepishly at the woman. “I’m sorry.” He said again.

“It’s all right, John.” She said in a tone that didn’t quite convince him that it was, in fact, all right. “Come here, big girl.” She said, taking the child from Sherlock. She sat next to the bed and balanced the girl on her knee. “Daddy doesn’t feel good, so we have to be careful.”

The girl leaned towards John and he reached out and took her hand. It was so small. She tightened her fist around two of his fingers. “Daddy.” She said. He almost cried. 

“Here, can I hold her?” He indicated his good side and the girl’s mother picked her up and positioned her on the bed next to John, his arm around her. She wiggled around to face John, propping herself up on his shoulder. He couldn’t stop looking at her. She was small but hardy with blue eyes and short ginger hair – she’d got that from him. “Jane?” He asked. 

“Yes.” Sherlock said. He was slouching by the windows. “And Mary.”

“Yeah, I, erm, worked that out. Eventually.”

“Don’t feel bad., Mary” Sherlock said. “He threw ME out. I slept on a chair in the hall.”

“And I’m going to do it again if you don’t shut up.” John grumbled.

“Well, some things don’t change.” Mary said and Sherlock laughed.

John ignored them. Jane was touching his cheek, running her hand over his freshly-shaved skin. He leaned in and kissed her head. “I HAVE to remember you.” He whispered to her. His breath tickled her and she laughed and threw an arm up over her ear. The sudden movement jostled him and he must have winced. 

“I’ll take her.” Mary said immediately. 

“No, she’s fine.” John said. “Let me hold her a bit longer.”

“I will. If you take some of the morphine.”

Sherlock sat up. “Are you in pain, John?” He asked. 

“Or I’ll just tell Sherlock.” Mary said. 

“One more word and I’m throwing everyone out.” John said. He watched as Sherlock and Mary shared a look. “Bloody christ.” He said. “I’m not a child.” Just then Jane leaned across his torso and the pain was blinding. “Oh!”

“Here we go.” Mary said, scooping up Jane. “Daddy hurt his chest, so we can’t touch him there, honey.” She told Jane. 

“I’m fine... I’m fine...” John said, but Sherlock was already fiddling with the IV stand, looking at the morphine controls. “Sherlock.” He said. “I’ll do it myself.”

“John, you haven’t...”

“I’ll do it myself!” John shouted. He took a breath and continued more calmly. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I need you all to back off.” Sherlock stood back and John painfully took hold of the IV stand and moved it to where he could see it. He pressed the button that would dispense morphine into his veins. He saw Sherlock wanted him to dispense more, but he ignored it.

“Well, we have to get going.” Mary said. “Say goodbye to daddy and Uncle Sherlock, Jane.”

John sighed and held out his hand to her. Mary brought the child back over to him. “How old is she?” He asked.

“20 months next week.” Mary said. 

“She’s beautiful.”

Mary smiled at him sincerely and John saw how lovely she was. “She is. Goodbye, daddy.” 

“Goodbye, Daddy.” Jane said. Mary leaned down and kissed John on the lips, surprising him. He watched them leave.

Then he caught sight of Sherlock’s face, twisted with jealousy. The emotion quickly smoothed away as if it had never been there. 

John sighed. ”Come here.” He said to Sherlock. “Sit with me. Please.” Sherlock sat in the chair Mary had just vacated. “I thought she was a nurse.” John said. 

“You thought I was a chaplain.”

John laughed. “I knew you weren’t a chaplain. I just couldn’t figure out what you were. I’m still not sure.” John reclined the bed. “The morphine is going to put me to sleep. Will you... will you stay with me until it does? I’m... “ John sighed. “I’m frightened, Sherlock. I don’t like that my friends are strangers. That I don’t even know my own daughter. I just want to REMEMBER.” Sherlock had scooted his chair closer and reclined it a bit so he leaned back next to John. John took his hand, watching Sherlock’s long fingers fold around his own. “I imagine you want that too.”

“More than anything.” Sherlock said. 

“Mmmm.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand and let go. John was starting to feel the morphine. He closed his eyes. “Wake me for dinner, will you? I’m starving.” John said. “And maybe go get us some takeaway. This hospital food isn’t so good.” John was drifting, he wasn’t sure if he’d said that last part or not.

–––

John had slept for hours. That was good, he needed it. Sherlock had sat next to the bed reading quietly until John started moaning. He thrashed abortively. Nightmare, Sherlock realized. 

At home he would hold John and pet his hair, whispering reassuring words until he calmed down. But now? 

John flung his good arm, almost twisting the IV lines.

Fuck it, Sherlock decided. He might throw me out again, but I can help him. He leaned in close, took hold of John’s good hand and ran his other hand over John’s hair. He made his voice soothing. “You’re ok, John. I’m right here. Nothing can hurt you. You’re ok...” After a minute, John quieted. Sherlock laid his head on the pillow next to John and closed his eyes. It felt so familiar, so good. 

He thought back to the first time they’d slept together – Sherlock had been so worried that he would disturb John, do something wrong, that he had stayed awake and watched John sleep.

They had been on a case –a good case, a nine maybe even a ten. It had not only made Sherlock work hard, they had had to travel across London to unfamiliar neighborhoods, infiltrate a warehouse abandoned for the night and pass themselves off as arson investigators. It culminated in a blocks-long sprint away from the chasing killer. Finally, a knackered John had pulled Sherlock into a pub and coached him on blending in. It had worked and, out of danger, they got a cab home.

They giggled in the cab about Sherlock’s ineptitude at ‘blending in.’ It had been like that for a while – weeks, maybe months – John relaxed, laughing with Sherlock again. Teasing him. It was almost like it was before Sherlock went away (Sherlock just thought of it as ‘before.’). But now there was Jane and John’s new job – both of which gave John so much joy.

Sherlock had unlocked the door to 221 Baker St. and they tumbled in, still laughing (arson investigators!). John had started up the stairs but turned back to say something... Sherlock had been right on his heels and suddenly they were face-to-face, chest-to-chest, John on a higher stair bringing their eyes level. Sherlock could feel John’s breath and without thinking he reached up and straightened the hair at John’s temple, his fingers trailing down John’s cheek.

Then John just leaned in another inch and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s. John looked at him, a question in his eyes – ‘do you want this?’ And, oh, Sherlock did. He wanted the kiss and everything that went with it. He pulled John against him and they kissed. It wasn’t a sweet kiss, it was hard and demanding and John shoved Sherlock against the wall and pinned him there, his hands exploring under Sherlock’s coat, his groin grinding against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock had been hard with another person once before, but that was so many years ago he couldn’t remember the details. He hadn’t been able to climax, Sherlock remembered that. The encounter had left him confused and a little bit frightened of the passion his partner had seemed to feel.

This was so completely different. John’s touch electrified him, transformed him into another creature entirely – one that looked like Sherlock but was made of pure desire. He couldn’t get enough of John’s mouth and tongue and neck and hands and the grinding contact of their torsos – his entire body felt ready to explode. 

And then he DID explode. Bucking and shuddering, Sherlock had come in the stairwell, in his trousers, in John’s arms.

John had laughed – not AT him, not unkindly. He hadn’t made Sherlock feel ridiculous for coming in his pants like a teenager. John had giggled sweetly and whispered things in Sherlock’s ear. “You are so beautiful.” He had whispered. “You are gorgeous when you come. Will you let me make you come again?” 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock had said and John’s giggles were infectious. John took him by the hand and led him the rest of the way upstairs.

It could have been awkward, Sherlock had very little idea what to do. But John had the knack for doing and saying the right things. He didn’t seem to care about Sherlock’s inexperience, he didn’t make any demands. He snogged him out of his coat and jacket in the front room, shedding his own somewhere along the way. “Is this uncomfortable?” He’d asked, his hand pressed against the wet spot on the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “Do you want to take them off?” They both felt Sherlock start to get hard again at the suggestion. 

They went to Sherlock’s bedroom. “Can I touch your skin?” Sherlock had asked, not sure what John would say, but wanting to have his hands on John’s bare skin so much. John had smiled and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and the top two buttons then pulled his shirt, jumper and vest off over his head all at once and John was naked to the waist. Sherlock had touched John reverently, tracing the scar on his shoulder, trying to memorize every divot and ginger hair with his fingertips. John had let him and somehow unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt without him noticing and pressed their bare skin together. John explored Sherlock’s skin then too, his hands wandering across Sherlock’s back, pulling him close for kisses...

Sherlock had tentatively taken initiative, tugging at the buttons on John’s jeans. While John took them off, Sherlock divested himself of his own damp trousers and pants. He stood there, nude, waiting for John to extricate himself from his shoes and jeans. John looked up and caught his breath. “You are so beautiful.” John said again. “I don’t deserve you.” Which bewildered Sherlock – John was absolutely perfect. 

John’s hand snaked around Sherlock’s cock. “Do you have...” John looked around. “Lie down.” He said. “I’ll be right back.” And John had left the bedroom in only his pants, returning a minute later with something in his hand that he set on the edge of the bed as he climbed on next to Sherlock.

Emboldened by his success thus far, Sherlock had slipped a finger under the waistband of John’s pants with a pointed look, and grinning, John had taken them off. He was hard, of course, his cock as perfect as the rest of him, thick and rosy, the moist head peeping out of its foreskin. Sherlock wanted to taste it, but he didn’t quite dare. 

John stretched out next to Sherlock and ran a hand over Sherlock’s hip, down his ivory flank then back around to grip his buttocks. Sherlock brushed his knuckles against John’s cock and John made a small but very pleasing noise. Sherlock took it in his hand and jacked it, taking in its length and girth, evoking even more pleasing noises from John.

John kissed Sherlock, then – to Sherlock’s chagrin – suddenly turned away. He did something Sherlock didn’t quite see, then turned back and stroked lubricant down Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock understood what John had done. John stroked more onto his own erection, then gripping Sherlock’s arse again, rubbed his hard cock against Sherlock’s, it slid up his belly pressing into Sherlock and Sherlock realized the person crying out was him.

They kissed and rubbed and thrust their hips, ground their bodies together. If Sherlock hadn’t already popped off in the stairwell, he wouldn’t have lasted 30 seconds. But he had and it seemed to go on and on and on, like waves on the ocean the incoming tide relentless and glorious. Sometimes Sherlock took John in his hand and experimented, seeing what made John moan more, and more loudly. 

John rolled on top of Sherlock, their cocks still together, and thrust into the hot, lubricated crevice between their bodies. It felt amazing to have John’s weight pressing into him, pinning him to the mattress. Sherlock thrust as well, and moaned out loud. It felt SO good this way. They both thrust hard and fast and Sherlock was balanced on the knifepoint of inevitability. His orgasm had surprised him with its suddenness and intensity, his back arching up off the bed, crying out and shooting hot semen between their chests.

John had come a moment later, grunting and juddering and grabbing at Sherlock’s arse and hair.

Sherlock felt a bit lightheaded after that. At some point, John had cleaned them off with a wet flannel then climbed back into the bed and pulled the duvet over them. 

“Is it OK if I stay?” John had asked, pressing up close to Sherlock. 

“Of course.” Sherlock hadn’t considered any other possibility. “John,” He said. “We do this now. We do this from now on.” After he said it, Sherlock realized it was a question.

“Yes.” John said. “We do this from now on.” Sherlock could feel him smile against his skin.

John stirred again. It woke Sherlock – he had dozed off in hospital with his head on John’s pillow. He pulled himself back onto the chair with a sigh.

“Monsters were chasing me. I fucking hate morphine.” John said, eyes fluttering. “Ugh. Something died in my mouth.” He finally opened his eyes and looked around the dark room. “What time is it?”

Sherlock glanced at his phone. “Half seven.” He said. John looked rumpled and creased.

John focused on Sherlock for a long moment. “Thank you for staying with me. It helps.” He said softly. “But if I’m keeping you from anything, please don’t feel you have to stay.” He pressed the button to make the bed sit up more.

“John,” Sherlock said and scoffed a little. “There’s nothing more important than this.”

“I’m serious, Sherlock....”

“John, whether you remember or not, you are my best friend. I have a duty of care.” He smiled wryly. “If you get sick of me, you can always throw me out again.”

John touched the other man’s hand lightly. “You really hated that.” He said. 

“I understood.”

John nodded. “Help me to the loo? I’m desperate for some mouthwash.” Sherlock helped him up. “I can do this, just give me a hand, yeah?” He took hold of Sherlock’s arm. “Is this OK?” John asked. 

“Yes.” Sherlock said. It wasn’t ok. Even before they were lovers, John would have put his arm around Sherlock. 

Sherlock pushed John’s IV along. When they got to the utilitarian en suite, John went in, holding onto the grab bar, and shut the door behind him. That was normal – John wanted privacy at home too. Sherlock knew what morphine did to the bowels.

His mind drifted back to Mary. She and John weren’t on kissing terms as far as Sherlock knew. So she’d kissed John on purpose. Why?

She hadn’t fought him on the divorce, but it was apparent to Sherlock, if not to John, that she wanted him back, that she thought he WOULD come back. And why not? They had a child together. He had loved her. John couldn’t be angry forever. Sherlock himself thought it was as like as not to happen eventually.

It wasn’t until John had told Mary that he was with Sherlock that she abandoned her hopes. Sherlock remembered how late John got home that night, his face worn and grim. Sherlock had discovered bruises on his body from where she’d hit him. John didn’t talk about it, but it was obvious she had let loose all her grievances and disappointments, burning down bridges as she went. 

Oddly, Mary had not been angry with Sherlock. She must have always known how much Sherlock loved John, better than Sherlock knew himself. She had – as Sherlock (mostly) had – believed John when he said he wasn’t interested in men romantically, so she had no reason to be threatened. In taking up with him, John had betrayed her, not Sherlock.

Sherlock heard the shower. John must be feeling better.

There was a knock on the door – it was the delivery man with the takeaway. Sherlock had ordered John’s favorite, thai. He paid the man and started unpacking the bag on the rolling table. 

There was a sliding thump from the en suite. Sherlock was at the door immediately, listening. “John? Are you ok?” No answer. He knocked. “John?” Sherlock only heard the shower. He opened the door. “John?”

Finally he heard John. “Call a nurse...” He said. Sherlock looked round the door - John’s legs were sticking out from the shower, splayed across the floor.

“John!” Sherlock surged into the small room and pulled back the shower curtain. John lay where he had fallen, gasping for air, his bandages soaked, pink staining some. Sherlock turned the water off and waded in to help John.

“Get out.” John gasped pushing Sherlock’s hand away ineffectually. “Call the nurse. Please. I need a nurse.”

“Ok!” Sherlock said. He left quickly and poked the call button a few times. He ran into the hall and shouted, “I need a nurse RIGHT NOW!” Then he ran right back into the bathroom. “They’re coming.” He said.

“Cold.” John said.

Sherlock grabbed a towel off the rack and quickly wrapped it around John’s shoulders, kneeling next to him. “Tell me what you need.” He said. The pink bandage was now seeping red. “Can I help you sit up?”

“Probably not...a good idea.” John panted. 

Sherlock didn’t like that his breathing was still so rapid. He also didn’t like that John was lying on the broken arm. He hated this, he hated feeling helpless. Where was the nurse!?

Finally she arrived. “In here.” Sherlock shouted. “He’s fallen.”

It was nurse Helen from yesterday. He stood back so she could get to John. She talked to him in a low voice.

“Yeah, I realize ... this was stupid...” John shouted. “Can you help ... me out of... the bloody shower!?”

Sherlock smiled to himself – THAT sounded more like normal.

It took a while, but with Sherlock’s help, Helen got John sitting up and breathing more normally. John realized then that he was completely naked, and turned bright red. Sherlock handed him another towel and he covered himself. Sherlock used the last towel to dry John’s hair and his legs. Then per Helen’s instructions, he crouched down and held John’s good arm over his shoulders and helped him stand. Then they painstakingly maneuvered him back to the bed. He lost his towel along the way and cursed imaginatively under his breath. Finally they got him to the bed. They sat him down and Helen bent down to pick up his legs. Sherlock saw John’s embarrassment – he didn’t like being so exposed but was in too much pain to do anything about it. He pulled the blankets over his lap quickly.

“Sorry about that.” He said to Helen.

She laughed. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” She said. “Other than showering before you’re ready.” John was still blushing. “You also don’t have anything to be ashamed of.” She said and winked.

“Perfect.” John muttered. “Bloody perfect.” Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh.

It took a while to peel off his bandages and assess the wounds underneath. He’d pulled out some stitches and would need more scans to look at his lung and his arm. Helen applied fresh bandages.

“They won’t get to you for a few hours.” She said before she left. “You should try and eat. Looks like your man got you something special.”

John was already floating on the morphine, but Sherlock still saw his grimace when she said ‘your man.’ 

Sherlock pulled the table over. He wasn’t hungry any longer, but John should eat if he could. This was nightmarish, being here with John who wasn’t HIS John. He was trying, Sherlock could see, and now and again Sherlock could almost lie to himself that John was OK. But he wasn’t. Nothing was OK. 

“Is it SO ridiculous to think that I might be ‘your man?’” Sherlock asked the room. 

John didn’t open his eyes, but he replied. “Not ridiculous. I just promised myself I’d never do that again.” He was high on the morphine - Helen had given him a bigger dose. John giggled. “You’re ridiculously out of my league, yeah.” John said. “That’s how I know this is all a joke.” He giggled again and then seemed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for John's new job and how that changed his approach to life. And to Sherlock.


	9. John's Writing Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a new job. And a new friend.

Sherlock was BORED. 

Lestrade had nothing for him. He’d waded through the cold cases at NSY four times already. His study of the tensile strength of artificial fibers had gone nowhere. There were no interesting clients on his website – a three at best. And John couldn’t come out and play. In fact, John had been singularly testy lately.

Sherlock had stomped around the flat in his dressing gown but had not found any cigarettes or guns to light up. He wasn’t in the mood for violin. Boredom was the enemy of inspiration. 

Finally Sherlock collapsed facedown on the couch and started calculating how long, in seconds, it would take to score cocaine.

He heard the front door open. Mrs. Hudson. Dreary.

No. Not Mrs. Hudson. He was walking up the stairs. 

John!

With suitcases!

Sherlock was up and putting the kettle on for tea by the time John reached the top step. Sherlock observed him as he set down his bags and backpack.

“You’ve left her.” Sherlock said. 

“Yes.” John indicated his luggage. “Is this OK?”

“Of course. You’re always welcome here.

John nodded and sat down at the kitchen table. “Looks like I’ll have to clean up a bit then.” He said looking around.

Sherlock surveyed the room, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh. I could....help.” He said picking up a pile of half burnt polyester swatches off the table and searching for a place to stow them. 

“How about the bin?” John suggested.

Sherlock looked at the remains of his experiment and shrugged. The bin it was.

“Do you want to talk —”

“No.” John cut him off sharply. “No, I don’t.”

Sherlock nodded and made the tea. He could see most of it anyway – this had been a big decision, one John had agonized over, weighing pros and cons endlessly. He had lost sleep, a lot of sleep (although that could be nightmares, or simply parenting a newborn) over this. So divorce? Probably. Most likely. He wouldn’t be here with three suitcases and a backpack for anything less. Sherlock wondered where the boxes were stored.

If Sherlock hadn’t read the divorce in John’s face and posture, he wouldn’t have believed it. John loved that baby with a ferocity Sherlock had never seen in him. He couldn’t imagine what it would take for John to leave the girl behind... Oh, of course! Stupid. He WASN’T leaving her behind. 

“Have you worked out custody arrangements?” Sherlock asked.

John sighed. “We have an appointment with a mediator on Thursday to discuss it. I don’t think Mary’ll fight me too much.” John looked around again. “I really DO have to clean if Jane’s going to be here.” John caught Sherlock’s eye. “Is that all right? Jane being here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Someone has to teach the child to differentiate the 247 kinds of cigarette ash.” He said. “Might as well be me.” He was rewarded with a small smile and the slightest relaxation of John’s spine. Good. John wouldn’t regret this decision. Once he got through the process, he’d be fine. “Mrs Hudson has milk.” He said, setting the tea on the table. “I’ll go get it.”

When he returned, John had poured a cuppa and Sherlock added the milk. John seemed slightly startled, but didn’t complain.

“Sherlock, there IS something I need to discuss with you.” John said.

“Oh.” Sherlock said, examining John again, trying to see where this was going. Ever since their embrace on the tarmac, John had been more reserved. It coincided with his return to Mary, so Sherlock couldn’t be sure it had anything to do with him. But he’d noted it. Maybe now John would tell him. He sat down at the table adjacent to John. “Ok.” He said.

“I don’t know if you know this, but I haven’t been happy in medicine since I left the army.” Sherlock had known that, it was plain to anyone paying attention. “The patients I see in the surgery aren’t anything like what I used to do. I’ve thought about trying to get into a hospital, back into surgery or emergency medicine, but the hours are hellish - I want to spend time with my daughter, not just run past her twice a day. So I’ve felt stuck.”

Sherlock nodded thinking John could skip the parts that were this obvious.

“I’ve been approached by the publishing wing of a major multimedia corporation, they want me to write a series of books – mystery novels – based on my blog. It’s good opportunity for me, I could afford to leave medicine and still support myself and Jane. I could afford this divorce.” John paused and looked at Sherlock. “But, I won’t do this without you, Sherlock. If this isn’t something you want, I’ll walk away from it. I can find another way.”

“Is that why you’ve come back here? To write a book?”

John smiled. “I came back here because it’s home.” He said. “Think about it. You don’t have to decide this minute.”

“You’ve already quit your job.” Obvious.

“Yeah.” John looked positively happy for a brief second. “But there are a hundred jobs just like it that are closer to Baker St.” John shrugged. “If you aren’t up for this, I think I’ll try writing something else. Maybe something about the war.”

“No.” Sherlock said. “Do this. I want you to do this.” As soon as he said it, John transformed – a heaviness lifted, a weight of stress and anxiety gone. His posture, his expression, his gestures, everything suddenly was more like John ‘before.’ It gave Sherlock a happy thrill.

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. He didn’t meet Sherlock’s startled gaze, he focused only on their hands. Sherlock remembered the feeling of their intertwined fingers on the runway that day, and he carefully tried to do the same now – John let him. Sherlock liked how their hands looked together: John’s brown and square, equally able to break every bone in a body as to heal them, useful hands, caring hands; Sherlock’s large and pale, calloused from the violin, scarred from a hundred small wounds but still elegant, graceful ... together they looked powerful. And to Sherlock’s eye, beautiful.

\---

Six months later...

John was making the thing with the sauce for dinner while Sherlock ‘kept an eye on’ Jane – today that meant placing different objects around her on the floor of the front room and noting which she rolled/crept towards and grabbed. Thus far, Jane preferred the skull 43% of the time, followed by John's red mug 39% of the time. Sherlock’s scarf was the big loser - John had taken his gun out of the running after the second round. (“What the hell....! Sherlock!!”). Sherlock stared at the girl, attempting to read her intent – what made her choose the white skull over the red mug? 

John walked into the room and set a bottle in front of Jane. Sherlock frowned – that would unnecessarily complicate his experiment, but he forgot about his irritation immediately when John plopped down on the couch next to him, so close their bodies touched from calf to shoulder. John stretched his arms across the back of the couch. Jane picked up the bottle and crept to Sherlock’s feet, she pulled herself up using his legs and lifted her arms in appeal. Sherlock picked her and the bottle up and settled her on his lap. When he sat back, his shoulders touched John’s arm. John didn’t move away.

Yesterday something had happened, something Sherlock was still thinking about. 

They were walking – Sherlock and John with Jane – when Sherlock was recognized by a fan. The fan had greeted the both of them then asked if Sherlock had anything on. Sherlock had replied in the negative. The man had then complimented Jane and asked if she were theirs. John said yes, she was and the man congratulated them both on becoming fathers and remarked on what an attractive family they were. 

And John had not corrected the man. He simply smiled and said thank you.

This was new. John ALWAYS corrected anyone who thought they were a romantic couple. Always. 

And the touching was new. As his divorce proceeded and schedules and details were worked out, John had progressively relaxed, letting go of stresses and worries he’d been carrying. And with that relaxation, came a new comfort with physical closeness. He would sit touching Sherlock. He would put a hand on Sherlock’s arm as he walked by, he occasionally massaged Sherlock’s shoulders. He had even let Sherlock hold his hand as they ran through a heavy rainstorm and didn’t let go when they found shelter in a doorway. They had huddled together for warmth!

He found he LIKED this new level of intimacy. He had not had a relationship with affectionate touching since mummy had held his hand when they walked Redbeard. (Did being a father lead John to be more open to touching?) Sherlock just wished he knew what the rules were. Could he hold John’s hand whenever he wished? Or within what parameters? He would have to run some experiments.

“I should change her and put her down before Russell gets here.” John said, taking the bottle away from a flagging Jane. He stood and carried her out of the room and up the stairs.

It took Sherlock a moment to remember who Russell was. John’s editor. He was coming for dinner – which was why John was going to all the trouble to make the thing with the sauce.

Sherlock had not regretted agreeing to John’s writing scheme for one moment. Writing meant John worked from home, which meant John was HERE. Writing about Sherlock meant that accompanying him on cases was a priority – second only to Jane. It was more like it was ‘before,’ even, in some ways, better. 

Sherlock heard the door. Mrs. Hudson answered it – he could hear her chatter, hear as she sent the guest up. 

The man who appeared in the doorway was blonde and fit, late 30s, wearing a good brown suit and a grass green shirt. Gay. Sherlock assessed immediately. He had the manicured hands of a white-collar worker, but with old scars and callouses from manual labor – he had been brought up in a working class family and gotten himself out. Intelligent and driven then. And going to meet someone special later, based on the level of grooming. Good. He wouldn’t stay late.

“Hello.” The man said extending his hand. “I’m Russell James, you must be Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood and took the man’s hand. “I am.” He said. 

“I’ve read so much about you, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “John’s overly romanticized version leaves most people disappointed with the real thing. I imagine you’ll be amongst them.” With that Sherlock wandered away to his desk to check his email.

To his credit, Russell laughed. “I’m assuming John is around somewhere.”

“He’s putting Jane to bed.” Sherlock said without looking up. Smiling, Russell sat down on the couch and amused himself with his smartphone.

Ten minutes later John came downstairs. “Russell! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” 

Russell stood. “Not at all, John.” He leaned in and with a familiar hand on John’s arm, pulled him close and pressed his lips to John’s cheek. 

To Sherlock’s dismay, John kissed the man’s other cheek in return simultaneously. He was only two inches taller than John, so the exchange was graceful. This obviously wasn’t the first time they’d greeted each other this way. Sherlock realized how stupid he’d been to think John’s new comfort with affectional touching was limited to Sherlock. “Idiot.” He said under his breath. He felt like a fool.

Russell looked over, but John ignored him, inviting Russell into the kitchen for wine. 

Sherlock listened to them – his email was boring – they were friendly with each other, and more familiar than Sherlock thought strictly necessary. When John opened the pot to check on the thing with the sauce, Russell peered over his shoulder, put his hand on John’s back and rubbed a circle. Sherlock ground his teeth. 

It was another fifteen minutes of this before John called out from the kitchen. “Sherlock, are you eating with us? Dinner’s ready.” 

“I’m coming.” Sherlock grumped, closing John’s laptop. John had changed the password to his email again and Sherlock hadn’t had any luck deducing it. He had been interested to look through Russell’s emails to John. 

Obviously John was the special someone Russell was meeting up with tonight. Sherlock couldn’t tell if John knew that or not. He was certainly COMFORTABLE with Russell. Sherlock studied him – he was wearing a new blue jumper and black pants, not jeans. Sherlock caught a hint of his aftershave. 

“Wine?” John asked as Sherlock sat at the table. Sherlock gave him the ‘are you kidding me’ look. Russell smirked and Sherlock turned the glare in his direction.

“I’m sorry.” Russell said, good-humoredly. “John told me guests aren’t really up your street.”

“My street. No.” Sherlock said standing up. “Lestrade texted earlier...”

“Sit down.” John told him firmly. “I made the thing with the sauce. You’re eating it.”

Sherlock sat. He ate the thing with the sauce – it was as good as he remembered, one of his favorites. John and Russell talked about John’s book. Boring. Sherlock stopped listening. When he had finished eating, he took his plate to the sink and turned towards the front room. He heard John’s disapproving sigh.

Was he supposed to sit there and watch John flirt with this insufferable git ALL evening? This was worse – MUCH worse – than John’s girlfriends....why was it worse? Sherlock realized he’d wandered into his bedroom. He flopped on the bed and sulked. 

It was a long time before he heard the guest leaving. Finally! Sherlock got up and went to the kitchen to look for leftovers/accost John. He had got to the stove, about to open the pot when he heard Russell James’ voice, husky and intimate.

“John.” He said. “I really like you.” 

Sherlock saw the door to the stairs was half open – he could see them on the landing, John with his back to the wall, Russell with his hand on the wall next to John’s head. 

Sherlock had been in this position once before, seeing John on the landing kissing a woman he’d pulled at the pub. Sherlock hadn’t thought much about it then one way or the other except to note that the woman worked as a bricklayer and that was unusual.

Russell James leaning in to kiss John, however... Sherlock didn’t know what he felt – some horrible combination of angry-sick-sad-scared with an adrenaline chaser.

“I like you too, Russ.” John’s voice. “But... “

“Wait.” Russell said. He touched John’s chin and lifted his face then leaned in and kissed him. John let it happen, didn’t shrink from the kiss, returned it. It was tender and much less brief than Sherlock wanted.

Finally it ended and John said, “Russ... I... I can’t do this. I just left my wife a few months ago... I’m not ready for this.”

“I’m sorry.” Russell had pulled back. “I...” 

“Don’t.” John said. “Come here.” And he pulled the man into an embrace. They stood there on the landing like that for a long moment. Sherlock thought he heard John sniffle – what was going on ?

Then they both stood back. “I’ll walk you out.” John said, and they started down the stairs.

Sherlock walked out onto the landing. John had gone outside with Russell. He was out there a long time, long enough Sherlock would have thought they’d left, gone somewhere, but for Jane asleep on her little cot upstairs. 

Finally the front door opened and John came back in, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He started up the stairs energetically – a veritable skip in his step – until he caught sight of Sherlock looming above. He stopped suddenly. “Jesus!” He said. “You startled me.” Then he continued up the steps and pushed past Sherlock into the kitchen. Sherlock followed him. 

“You’ve been a complete wanker all evening. Thanks for that.” John said turning on the water in the sink tersely. 

“You’re not gay.” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “So what.”

“You’re not gay. SO WHAT WAS THAT!?”

“That was none of YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.” John shouted back, and slammed the dirty dishes down next to the sink with a clatter. “A bit of advice, Sherlock, when you’re jealous, throwing a bloody tantrum does not make you the more attractive option.”

Sherlock scoffed. Jealous? But that sparked something... a memory... and suddenly Sherlock knew. “How did I not see this?” He said. “How was I so blind? It was staring me in the face – Major Sholto!” 

John went rigid at the name.

“I couldn’t understand why he was so in love with you...”

“Shut up.” John said, low and dangerous.

“But you were... together, you were lovers and he still -”

“SHUT. UP. Stop. Talking. Sherlock. STOP IT!” With a violent motion, John threw one of the dishes onto the floor where it shattered loudly. 

Distantly Sherlock heard Jane start to cry. “John...”

“NO.” John said. Without another word he walked away towards his room where Jane slept.

\---

The next day was Saturday. John didn’t speak to Sherlock all day. He bundled Jane up and took her out early. Returning in the afternoon he took her straight upstairs for her nap and didn’t come down until it was time to feed her. 

Sherlock had cleaned up the broken plate and washed the dishes from the night before. He didn’t quite understand why John was angry with him, but he knew it was better to leave John alone when he was in this sort of mood. 

After feeding Jane, John took her into the loo for a bath. Sherlock generally helped at bath time, distracting the child while John washed her hair. Sherlock enjoyed it – Jane seemed interested when Sherlock told her about the periodic table or an especially volatile chemistry experiment. 

Tonight John shut the door. Afterwards he carried her straight up to his room, pausing only to pick up her favorite toy – a black and white striped cat that Mycroft (!) had given her. He didn’t come back down the rest of the evening.

Sunday was much the same. John and Sherlock usually got brunch early on Sunday mornings, but John had already eaten and was feeding Jane when Sherlock woke. They occupied the same room for half an hour while Sherlock made tea and drank it. John had that set to his jaw that kept Sherlock silent. 

Sunday afternoon, John walked his daughter to Mary’s flat – quite a nice flat about a mile away. He usually asked Sherlock to accompany them – as a buffer between him and Mary – but this time he simply left without speaking. He didn’t come home until very, very late, stumbling a little on the stairs as he made his way to his room.

Sherlock spent much of the time thinking about what had happened, why John had gotten so angry. Why he had always been so adamant about insisting that he wasn’t gay and that Sherlock wasn’t his boyfriend. Why would anyone care? Why would John care?

John obviously had had a romantic relationship with at least one man – Sholto. It couldn’t be that it had been a terrible experience. If that were so, John wouldn’t still be in touch with him, still count him among treasured friends. John’s salute to the man at his wedding had shown respect and sensitivity – and a deep affection. 

And with Russell James he had not been uncomfortable. They had kissed, for god’s sake, and John had not even implied that he was ‘not gay.’

Not gay. Semantically, that was interesting. John never said “I’m straight,” “I’m heterosexual.” And demonstrably, John WASN’T gay. But there was a lot of territory in between ‘not gay’ and ‘straight.’

John had only, to Sherlock’s recollection, said ‘I’m not gay’ when also asserting that he and Sherlock were ‘not a couple.’ Was that it? Was John really just telling the world that he was not and never could be with Sherlock that way? 

That didn’t feel good. 

Sherlock had never explored his sexuality beyond one abortive attempt at Uni. It hadn’t seemed worth his time, especially when there were so many other interesting things to do. He didn’t consider himself gay or straight, though his one partner had been a man. He had been attracted to The Woman, but the thought of actually doing something physical with her turned his stomach.

But he liked touching John. He wanted to touch John more often. Sherlock made himself envision kissing John, touching him intimately. He didn’t get the slightly ill feeling he had had with The Woman. Thinking about it, Sherlock realized he’d very much like to try kissing John. He felt ill-equipped to imagine more.

He wanted to kiss John!

But John had made it clear since the very beginning that he was not interested in kissing Sherlock.

That felt awful.

\---

It wasn’t until Tuesday evening that John spoke to Sherlock again. 

“I’m taking Jane to Mary’s. Do you want to come?” He’d asked quietly.

“Sure.” Sherlock said, though he felt unsure.

John didn’t speak again until they had packed everything up and were outside, pushing Jane’s pram down the sidewalk.

“Sherlock,” John said, taking a deep breath. “There are some things that we aren’t going to talk about. I’m not going to talk about it now and you are not going to bring it up again. If you do, I swear to god, I won’t be responsible. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Sherlock said.

“One of those things is James Sholto. We are not discussing that. You are not saying his name to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“As for the rest, if you have questions, you can ask and I’ll tell you if I’m comfortable talking about it or not.”

“I understand.”

“Good.” John let go of a little of the tension he’d been carrying. “Do you have questions?”

“I think so.” Sherlock said. 

“In your own time, then.” Sherlock could see John trying to relax, trying to steady his breathing and focus on it. 

Sherlock thought for a minute. “You’ve been much more comfortable with touching the last few months than you’d ever been before. Why?”

That didn’t seem to be the question John was expecting. He took a moment to think about it. “The divorce has been... difficult. There have been a lot of changes in my life all at once – Jane, a new job, moving back in with you, working out how to co-parent with Mary... I guess I missed casually touching someone else, someone I was close to. I decided I wasn’t going to be so uptight about it anymore. I didn’t mean to impose on you, and I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“No.” Sherlock said. “I like it. I just don’t know what’s expected of me. I don’t know what the rules are.” 

John smiled at his hands. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he was amused about. “You aren’t sure what touching is OK and what isn’t?” John said.

“Yes.”

“If you aren’t sure, just ask me. I’ll tell you what I’m comfortable with. And if I do something you don’t like, just say so, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. “Is Russell James your boyfriend?” He asked. 

John laughed – a short explosive sound. “No.” He said. 

“You kissed him.”

“I let him kiss me. There’s a difference." Sherlock looked unconvinced. "I knew he wanted to ask me out – I invited him over for dinner because I thought you’d run interference and he’d never get a chance to ... get cozy. And since EVERYONE ELSE on earth seems to think that you and I are a couple, I guess I hoped he would too and just leave off. If you hadn’t decided to sulk all evening it might've worked. ”

“But you kissed him. How will he know that you ... don’t want to be ...pursued?”

“I was being polite. You should try it sometime.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was letting him down easy. Saying ‘no’ but in a way that lets him keep his pride. I still have to work with him on the book.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “You’re not gay?” He said. “But...?”

John paused again to collect his thoughts. “When I was younger," He began carefully. "I didn’t feel... adverse... to sexual experiences with men. It wasn’t something I usually sought out, but if it came up, I would go with it. About ten years ago, I changed my mind about that. Never mind why, I just did. My primary sexuality has always been hetero, so it made very little difference. But I felt very strongly about it. Lately... I’ve found that being strictly hetero isn’t as important to me anymore.”

Sherlock digested that. He wondered what had happened – but John wasn’t going to talk about it, he could tell. Sherlock had another question, the one he most wanted answered, but he wasn’t sure how to ask. “John, you have always made a point to say that you and I aren’t a couple.” He began. “You’ve been very clear about that – you obviously don’t want anyone to think that you and I could be together.” Sherlock thought about how to say this. “What... what did I do that made you... feel that way?”

“Oh Sherlock.” John slipped his arm through Sherlock’s and pulled him closer. “You didn’t do anything. I said that for me... I wanted to remind myself that I didn’t do that anymore. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’d done something wrong. You haven’t. Honestly, I didn’t think you cared one way or the other. You DID make a point to tell me the first night we met that you weren’t interested in sex AT ALL.” John paused. “Is that still the case?” He asked.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said. “I... I liked it when you took my arm just now. Can I hold your hand?”

“Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock found John’s hand and intertwined their fingers. “I didn’t mean to make you so angry.” He said. 

“I know. I didn’t intend to make you jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“Mmm. OK. You just sulk all night for the hell of it.”

“Sometimes. Besides, he was boring.”

“Mmm.” John said. 

\---

Four months later...

John woke up slowly. It took him a few moments to realize that the light was wrong ... because he was in Sherlock’s bed, not his own. It had FINALLY happened last night – They had kissed. And Sherlock hadn’t recoiled in disgust as John had feared. Sherlock had wanted to be kissed, wanted John. He smiled remembering how sweetly innocent Sherlock was about sex. If he hadn’t been so enthusiastic, John would have felt like he was taking advantage. But Sherlock had wanted it all as much as John had. It was better than his dreams, better than his fantasies... being with Sherlock was simply better.

John rolled over and found Sherlock sitting propped up against the headboard, laptop balanced on his legs. He seemed absorbed in whatever he was reading.

John caressed Sherlock’s calf under the duvet thinking how beautiful and otherworldly he looked. “Good morning.” He said. 

Sherlock smiled at him. “Good morning, John.” 

John’s hand traveled up Sherlock’s leg to his thigh. “Any regrets this morning?” He asked. 

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. “No....you?”

“No.” John’s hand continued it’s journey over Sherlock’s skin. “I’ve been dreaming of this for a long time.” He said. 

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “I think I have too. I have. I just didn’t know what it was.”

John’s hand came up against the laptop. “What are you doing?” He asked.

“Research.” Sherlock turned the screen so John could see. 

“Oh!” John was so surprised he choked a little. “That’s an eye opener.” He watched the two men change to a less comfortable-seeming position and resume fucking vigorously. 

“I want you to do that to me.” Sherlock said pointing. 

John felt all the blood in his body rush to his cock. “Erm.. ahem...I think I can... erm...accommodate you.” He coughed. “That’s a bit...advanced. We might need to work up to it.”

“I know, I watched a 'how-to' video on YouTube.” Sherlock clicked the mouse on another browser window. “And this.” He said. “We should do this.”

John laughed. He levered himself into a sitting position next to Sherlock. "We will do everything you want." He said. He closed the laptop then set it aside and in the same motion, began kissing Sherlock's long neck. "But right now I think it's time for some hands-on experience." He said and guided Sherlock's hand to his erection. 

Sherlock blushed bright red, but started to stroke his lover's cock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time - What is Mary up to?!


	10. John Watson, Average Bloke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves the hospital but can't find 'home.'

John was going home today. Or “home.” He didn’t know what to expect – trying to imagine Sherlock’s environment, let alone his own so many years out of the service, proved impossible.

He had spent eight days in hospital altogether, Sherlock ever-present, Mary bringing Jane by in the evenings, and seeing (meeting) several other visitors.

Mike Stamford had stopped by – it was such a relief to actually recognize someone, to remember at least some of their shared history, he found himself tearing up. Until that moment, John hadn’t realized how stressful everything else had been.

Harry visited and John experienced another sort of stress, one horribly familiar, having watched his father drink himself to death and now his sister... she looked awful and didn't stay long. 

John's life still felt like a lucid dream – he expected to wake at any moment in his bunk, Captain Rivington snoring across the hall, needing to get himself up and to mess before his duty shift in hospital (a repurposed warehouse inside the walls of what was once the compound of a smaller warlord). Besides himself, the main character of this dream was Sherlock: the best friend cum lover with singular talents and preoccupations, devoted to John’s protagonist. A beautiful, alien figure seemingly above mere human constraints until time spent together revealed his all-too-human needs and motivations. Only John’s daughter had made as large an impression on his confused and exhausted mind (that was always one small step away from gibbering hysteria). 

He had sent Sherlock home a couple times. John had been wheeled back to his room late one night after a scan and found Sherlock dead asleep in the recliner. He looked frail and vulnerable, his extreme thinness revealed in sleep as it rarely was when he was conscious. John saw the man’s stubbled chin, tousled hair and rumpled suit and felt ashamed that he had not noticed how ragged he had become. John started insisting Sherlock eat with him at every meal and that he go home and bathe every other day at the very least. 

John felt a bit unsettled when Sherlock was gone. If nothing else, Sherlock was something to hold onto while he tried to acclimate to this bewildering new reality. 

\---

John woke from a kip one afternoon without Sherlock, to find a strange man in his room. Not the fussy, posh bloke from that first night (thank goodness) - a tall, silver-haired, good looking man in his mid 40s. 

Please god, John thought, don’t let him say he’s my ex-boyfriend. Or a secret affair. Please.

“John!” He said. “How are you feeling, mate?” 

Mate. Just a friend then. Good! “Erm... I’ve been better.” John said. “Erm... yeah. You’re going to have to introduce yourself.” He sighed. “Maybe a sentence about how we know each other.” John pressed the button to sit the bed up.

“Sherlock wasn’t joking, you really don’t remember anything.”

“Sherlock doesn’t strike me as much of a joker.” John said. “But then, you must know him better than I do.” He shrugged.

At this, the silver-haired chap looked incredibly sad. “Greg Lestrade.” He said. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, New Scotland Yard. You call me ‘Greg.’ I’m usually Sherlock’s minder when he consults with us.”

John chuckled. “I thought I was supposed to be his minder.”

Lestrade grinned. “You’re more his carer, I’d say.” 

“That’s great” John sighed under his breath. “Just great.”

“You’re looking pretty good for having taken a two story dive into an alley.”

“You were there? Right, I think Sherlock mentioned you were there.”

“Yeah. We’ve been mopping up the Vaughn case the last few days. I need Sherlock’s statement still – would you tell him?”

“Yeah... I’ll tell him. Greg, did I... kill Vaughn – the Southwark Spree Killer’s husband? Sherlock said I shot him.” John still felt uncomfortable with that.

Greg shrugged. “Howard Vaughn. He incurred a bullet wound during the commission of a crime that caused a NSY consultant to be seriously injured. I didn’t see who shot him myself and I have yet to get the statement of the key witness." He looked John over. "You won’t be charged, John, don’t worry about that.”

John hadn’t even considered that aspect. “Oh...erm, thanks.”

“Which reminds me, I have something of yours.” Lestrade pulled a handgun from the pocket of his trench coat and held it out to John. It was the same kind as John’s service weapon, a SIG Sauer P226.

“Mine?” John asked. 

“Yeah. It's unloaded.”

John took the gun. It felt like his service weapon – too light, of course, but for cleaning he kept it loaded. It appeared to be well cared for. “Thanks.” John said.

“Just don’t let Sherlock get a hold of it again.”

What? No, of course - I don’t let anyone use my weapon.”

“No, I mean hide it from him. He doesn’t ask permission and he treats it like a toy.”

John realized he was gaping and closed his mouth.

\---

The cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker St. 

“Here we are.” Sherlock said. He waited for John to climb out of the cab. John didn’t recognize the neighborhood, let alone the building. That was a letdown, he’d hoped familiar surroundings would jog his memory.

The door opened before Sherlock could unlock it and Mrs. Hudson waved them in. She had come to hospital bringing homemade biscuits each time. John had suspected that she brought Sherlock's particular favorites and was happy to see him eating quite a few of them. John was still trying to work out just what the relationship was between her and Sherlock.

“Come in... Oh, John, it’s so good to have you home again. It’s been so quiet without you two. And the baby! It seems like weeks since I’ve seen the baby.” She led him through a hall and up stairs to the second floor - Sherlock following John's slow progress ready to help if need be. The stairs were a bit of a struggle, after lying on his back atrophying for a week and a half and with a still-healing lung. (Plus he had let himself go a bit in the last six years, not a nice realization for a man used to being combat-ready.)

He looked around the flat. The flocked wallpaper with the spray painted happy face (were those bullet holes?!), the eclectic furnishings, the medical microscope, the Cluedo game on the shelf, the human skull on the mantle...nothing. He remembered nothing. 

He took a few more steps and saw the kitchen and a hallway. Mrs. Hudson was filling an electric kettle with water for tea, there were mugs on the counter, a stack of mail addressed to John on the table and chemistry equipment (!) on a side table. 

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. John shook his head. 

“Your bedroom is this way.” Sherlock said, masking his disappointment, and guided John into the hallway. One door led to a bathroom, the other to a minimally furnished bedroom with a large window and a double bed. There were no other doors.

“Where’s your bedroom?” John asked. Sherlock’s expression was suddenly unreadable. “I’m an idiot. This is OUR bedroom.”

“It was.” Sherlock said and John could hear the deep well of sadness the other man tried to hide. “There’s another bedroom upstairs – Jane sleeps there when she stays with us. I’ll use that one.”

“That’s not right – I’ll stay in Jane’s room.”

“John, you really aren’t ready for the stairs. It’s easier for everyone if you just stay here.”

“OK, fine. Thank you.” John said and looked around the room again. “Could you give me a minute?”

Sherlock nodded and left the room. 

...And the crushing weight of NOT REMEMBERING descended. It was too heavy to stay standing, but the bed – how could John lie down on this bed knowing (but not remembering) that Sherlock had shared it?

John sat on the floor instead, closing the door and leaning against it. He covered his head with his arms, trying to blot out his disappointment. He had been counting on this, really counting on coming home bringing some memory back. Anything. John would be happy with a vague sense of deja vu – ANYTHING.

But there was nothing. He’d lost six years. They were just gone.

He was in a strange flat, continents away from where he was supposed to be, surrounded by strangers who looked at him with expectations and emotions and such terrible longing and he didn’t know what to give them. Or if he even had the energy to try. 

John cried. It hurt his chest. The way he was sitting hurt his chest. Drawing breath hurt his chest. Facing the reality that he still did not remember hurt his heart and his head and he just wanted to curl up and disappear.

He didn’t know what to do. There was nothing TO do. John sat there for a long time.

Eventually there was a knock on the door. It distantly penetrated the black oblivion. He should answer, but it seemed too difficult. 

“John?” It was Sherlock of course. He tried to open the door but John was leaning against it. “John!?” 

John roused himself. “Wait.” He said loudly enough to be heard. “Just wait a second. Yeah?” He took a deep breath and shifted himself sideways, moving away from the door, keeping his back to the wall. It was difficult. Everything was difficult. “OK” He said. 

The door opened immediately. Sherlock knelt beside him. “John? What happened.”

“Nothing. Nothing happened.” John felt the tears start again. He tried to swallow them down. “I just need some time. That’s what the neurologist said – give it time.” He waved Sherlock away.

Sherlock sat back helplessly.

\---

The days passed. John learned he was a writer now (!). He opened the files on his laptop and read them. There were outlines for three books and three fourths of a finished novel. John had no idea what would have come next. He put it away. 

He had been a trauma surgeon in Afghanistan. A good one. He wondered why he hadn’t pursued it when he returned to London six years ago. Then Mary told him that they met when he was working in a little surgery as a GP. How had he ended up there? He couldn’t imagine a less fulfilling job. It was depressing.

Slowly his wounds healed. He started physical therapy for the arm and shoulder, working to regain strength and mobility. As he was able, he started working out more. He started running again, doing the calisthenics he had done as a soldier, regaining some of his fitness. This was the one thing that felt normal, that he felt like he was in control of. 

He avoided people for the most part. But he was lonely. Sherlock was often present, but he was tentative, leaving John alone unless John spoke to him. Sometimes he tried harder with Sherlock, went to dinner with him or sat with him on the couch to watch crap telly together. John liked the man, liked spending time with him - sometimes he could even see how he had fallen for him. But Sherlock couldn’t completely hide the loss he felt, no matter how he tried and John couldn’t bear to see how much he was hurting the man. He was flummoxed as to how HE could have inspired so much devotion - he was just John Watson, average bloke. He chafed at the responsibility of it. 

Sleeping in THEIR bed was difficult. In the drawer of the bed table John found towels, flannels and a big tube of lubricant. He tried to imagine his state of mind when he had stocked the drawer - he knew it had to have been him - anticipation? Lust? Happiness? From experience he knew that for him to be with a man - WITH him not just fool around with him - the connection had to be extraordinary. How could John lie in that bed and not feel it? Through the baby monitor on the bedside table he sometimes heard Sherlock's restless sleep, he wanted to reach through it, bridge the impossible distance between them.

He sank lower, he lost his appetite, added a second run in each day - it passed the time and the exercise high helped him feel functional for a little while. Sherlock's eyes would follow John as he got ready to go for his runs, silently protesting. One day when it was pouring out, Sherlock almost said something, but John darted out the door before he had a chance.

The bright spot in this limbo was Jane. On weekday afternoons, John walked to her carer’s and picked her up. When she saw him, she would come running and hug his legs. “Daddy!” She’d yell. That made him so happy - it made everything else worth bearing. He was glad she was so young and didn’t know that her Daddy had no memory of her before a few months ago. 

John had Jane for a couple hours. He usually took her for a walk, maybe through the park or to a playground. Then he took her to his flat and fed her dinner. She loved Sherlock and when she was with them, engaging with the man felt less fraught. 

Sherlock obviously cared for the child. He didn’t treat her like other adults treated children. He would have conversations with her about maths or physics, he would set up experiments with her toys and observe her closely. He didn’t mind if she was fussy or tired or throwing a full-on tantrum (she really did have John’s temper), he never lost his patience, accepted it as a variable that couldn’t be controlled for and experimented with different soothing techniques. It was actually a bit irritating – John fed her and bathed her, changed her and sat her on the potty chair, he cleaned up after her, told her ‘no’ and enforced rules, while Sherlock played with her, made her laugh, and snuck her sugary treats.

John's body remembered the tasks that his brain had forgotten - feeding Jane, diapering her, he found he had the skill of long practice. He was glad of it, but it was also another reminder of the importance of what he'd lost, an itch in an amputated limb he couldn't remember walking on.

Around half five or 6 pm, John walked Jane to Mary’s – except every other Friday when he kept her for the weekend. John started to enjoy the ‘handoff’, enjoy chatting with Mary. They didn’t talk about their former life together, they just talked. Often about Jane, or the weather, current events. Mary might tell him about a funny patient she’d had (ironically Mary WAS a nurse, just not one that worked at that hospital), or a movie she’d seen. John knew that in the past he had fallen in love with her, married her and then discovered she had lied about her unsavory past, and worst of all, she had put a bullet in Sherlock. He knew he had divorced her and that there must be great bitterness there. But all that was lost to him, erased. He didn’t feel those emotions. And Mary didn't seem to either - she never reproached him for any of it in word or deed. She never betrayed herself with longing glances or hurt expressions hastily buried. She never seemed vindictive or unaccountably angry.

It became obvious to him why he had fallen for her in the first place. Mary was attractive, yes, but her intelligence, charm and wit were stunning. She made him laugh - something he sorely needed. For John, it was more a question of how she had fallen for him. 

Somehow, average bloke John Watson had earned the love of two extraordinary people. He had no idea how.

One evening, Mary asked if he wanted to stay for dinner. 

“I’d like that, yeah.” John said. It seemed like a good idea. 

She gave him a glass of wine and put him to work chopping vegetables for the salad. 

“Speed it up there.” She said, watching his methodical progress.

“Do you want it done fast or done right?”

She blushed a little, fetchingly, but didn’t remark on what could be a double entendré. (He hadn't meant it that way, but her pretty embarrassment immediately made him think it.)

Mary made toad-in-the-hole. They drank more wine and ate. John found her so easy to talk to.

“It’s...strange... it's just hard,” He told her. “I hate, I absolutely hate not remembering. I feel... cheated out of time I should have had. But the worst is the people – my 'friends.' I can see that they want things from me, but I don’t know what or how to give it.” He sighed and took another drink. “I should make new friends, but I’ve never been very good at that.”

Mary murmured something sympathetic.

John focused on her. “You must have... complicated feelings about me... US. We have a daughter together, a history that can’t have been pleasant.” John shrugged and finished his wine.

“Sherlock must be having a hard time of it.” Mary observed.

“Yeah. He is, yeah. He tries but he can’t hide how much he misses whatever it was we had. And I’m afraid he’ll never be able to move on while we live together.”

“You’re thinking of moving?” She asked pouring him more wine.

John shrugged. “I can think all I want, but I don’t have a job. Sherlock’s flat is close to here and Jane’s carer. I looked around a bit, but anything I could afford is depressing and far away. I hate to stay there and continue hurting him.. but I don’t have a lot of options right now, do I? Not with Jane in the mix.” John pushed his plate away, half finished. “I should probably talk to him about it. It still feels strange to think of him as... my lover." He sighed. "There are other fish in the sea. The sooner he gets on with it, the better.”

“John, when you talk to him, don’t say that.”

“What?”

“There are other fish in the sea. There aren’t for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one has told you?”

“Told me what?”

Mary put her hand on John’s arm. “You’re his first, John. And you are the only person he’s ever thought of that way.” 

“No. That’s insane. He’s 40, for christ’s sakes.”

“That’s Sherlock. He was basically asexual until he fell for you. If you hadn’t wanted to be with him, he’d still be a virgin.”

“A virgin?” John put his head in his hands. “A bloody virgin. Jesus fucking christ.” He muttered. “This is too much. This is too much responsibility.”

Mary leaned over and put her arms around him. It was comforting. He could smell her perfume – it was light and pleasing yet distinctive.

“No wonder he can’t hide it.”

“You made him very happy.”

“Oh Jesus.” John pulled away from her. “Can I use your loo?” He asked. Standing, he realized he was drunk. 

In the loo he washed his face in cold water. Jesus bloody christ, how had no one told him? What was he going to do?

When he emerged, he helped Mary clear the table. She declined his offer to help with the dishes. 

“I’d better get going then.” John said. He had a lot to think about. “Thank you for dinner – and for listening to me moan. I didn’t mean to be such a downer.”

“You’re not.” Mary said. “I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you.” She put her arms around him and he returned the embrace. He smelled her perfume again. She felt good in his arms, soft and solid, the exact right size.

When he pulled back, she kissed his cheek. That felt good too. He smiled at her and when she kissed his lips, he kissed her back. She caressed the back of his neck in the way that turned him on. He grasped her more firmly and she moaned. She kissed him harder, a hand snaking down to the front of his trousers and rubbing him through the cloth. He pushed her roughly back against the table, jolting it a few inches. She sat back and, yanking her skirt up, wrapped a leg around his hips. She nipped his neck. He was moving against her, his hands gripping her arse, his face in her hair.

"Oh god, John!" She breathed in his ear then bit into his neck again. Fuck, how did she know all the places that made him hard?

Fuck. John pulled back from her. He was not going to have a go with his ex-wife - especially not while living with his most recent, and obviously devastated, lover. He was NOT.

"John... John." Mary tried to pull him close again.

"Stop. Mary, just stop." John pushed her away, trying to be gentle.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"I can't do this." John stepped back from her. "Mary, I just can't. I have to go.” He turned towards the door grabbing up his coat.

"John?" He left quickly, pulling the door closed behind him.

The walk back to Baker street sobered John somewhat. Snogging with his ex-wife now, while everything was so fraught with Sherlock, had not been brilliant. He needed to pull it together. And, John realized, he needed to be on his guard with Mary - this wasn't happenstance.

John hoped that Sherlock would be out or in bed when he arrived back at the flat – anywhere but where John would encounter him. He wanted to walk into the shower and then directly into bed.

But when John opened his front door, he heard Sherlock's violin. He was playing something romantic that John didn't recognize. He wondered if he'd known it before the accident. 

He walked into the flat through the kitchen door, hoping not to disturb Sherlock. But he stopped playing as John came in.

“Hey.” John said and put the kettle on for tea. He waited for Sherlock to start playing again, but when he turned around, Sherlock was there. 

"I didn't mean to interrupt your playing." John said. "Tea?"

Sherlock had an odd look on his face.

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't speak, he closed the ground between them quickly and pinned John's wrists lightly against the edge of the counter. He leaned down and smelled John - his chest and neck, face and hair.

"What are you..."

"Claire de Lune." He said. "Mary wears Claire de Lune." 

"Sherlock..." John said. 

But it was too late Sherlock released him abruptly a look of disbelief on his face, quickly replaced by horror then betrayal. He turned and strode out of the room, up the stairs and into the bedroom. John heard him slam the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, will John & Sherlock reconcile? Will John regain his memory?
> 
> Coming soon!


	11. Are You Sure?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in time slightly – with some bonus smut from the Mind Palace.

Lestrade had a case. He’d texted. 

Sherlock watched John puttering in the kitchen. He wasn’t doing well, even Sherlock could see that.

In the months since Sherlock brought him back to Baker St. John had gotten more and more distant. He didn’t talk much anymore, he didn’t ask about cases or get excited to go along. He didn’t make dinner or lunch – didn’t seem to eat much more than tea and toast. He didn’t get irritated with Sherlock any more, he didn’t get angry, he rarely called Sherlock a dick or a wanker, he didn’t do anything, really, except surf the internet, go to his doctor appointments, and spend time with Jane. 

The only thing other than Jane that seemed to interest John were his daily runs. RUNS. Sherlock hadn’t thought much about it at first. But John’s runs got longer and longer. Then he started running twice a day – mid morning and again after he’d taken Jane to Mary’s in the evening. Sherlock had followed him a few times – all he did was run, sometimes steadily, sometimes in intervals, wearing military sweats, earbuds and ratty, old trainers. Five minutes on the internet had confirmed Sherlock’s suspicions that so much so quickly was a terrible idea. He said nothing.

*Will you come?* Lestrade again.

*Yes* Sherlock texted back. He took a deep breath. “John! We have a case.” He exclaimed. “Suspicious death at the ballet. Get your coat.”

John looked up from his tea briefly, didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Erm... can’t...I have ... something I need to do .” He returned his gaze to the newspaper lying open in front of him. Arts section. 

Sherlock grimaced. John never read the Arts section.

“With Jane.” John added. “A thing with Jane.”

“Oh. Erm, Yes, we can have you back in plenty of time for –”

“I can’t.” John repeated. “Good luck.”

After another moment, Sherlock gave up and left for the ballet.

The case was a four at best. Boring. It took all of five minutes and that included getting lost backstage for three. 

As he left, Donovan caught up with him and fell in step. “How’s John?” She asked.

He looked at her sidelong. “Do you have a cigarette? I’m gasping.” 

She didn’t reply for a beat. “That bad, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock said and left her behind.

–––

“Mary wants to have a birthday party for Jane on the nineteenth.” John said as he set Jane’s dinner in front of her.

Sherlock frowned. “That’s our weekend. We have tickets to that thing at the aquarium.”

“I know.” John said picking Jane’s spoon up off the floor. “Would you be willing to come with when I take Jane over tonight? I thought we should hear Mary out.”

Sherlock looked him over, assessed. John didn’t want to give up their plans. That was positive – showing an interest and a preference. But he also was having a hard time staying interested – not worth haggling about, easier to just give in. He had always been stubbornly protective of his time with Jane, unwilling to let Mary erode it. Was this an experiment on her part to see if memory–impaired John was more... flexible? Or was she simply taking advantage of his depression? Sherlock wouldn’t classify Mary as controlling, but until Sherlock made sure John knew her secrets, she generally got her way. Not controlling, more subtly manipulative. (While Sherlock himself was rather overtly manipulative, and John, the manipulated.) “Of course.” He said. “Are you thinking of giving up the aquarium scheme?”

“I’d rather not. But I thought we should hear her reasons first.”

“Eminently reasonable.” Sherlock said. He took a piece of carrot off of Jane’s plate and pretended to eat it.

“Ock! Mine!” The girl asserted.

John’s eyes crinkled, but he kept himself from smiling. “Best eat your veg, Jane, before Ock gets it all.” 

The child looked at Sherlock suspiciously. He wiggled his fingers towards her and she shrieked and grabbed at her plate.

The walk to Mary’s was very pleasant. Sherlock hadn’t been along since he showed John the way six weeks prior. Before the accident, he had walked with them most days.

Jane was somnolent in her stroller, her stuffed black and white cat clutched to her chest. John seemed to be in better spirits than he was generally. Sherlock decided he wanted to keep himself in THIS moment, enjoy this quiet walk with John and his daughter without the memories of other walks from happier times crowding in. Right now he had this and he was grateful for it.

“What happened at the ballet?” John asked. “Suspicious death?”

“No, sadly not suspicious at all. Clear case of misadventure. Only an idiot would find it suspicious.”

“Mmm. Still, I’m sorry I didn’t go.”

Sherlock wished John had gone too. “It was boring.” He muttered. 

“Well, maybe you’ll get lucky and there will be another spree killer. I could come along.”

“That would be... good.”

“Yeah. Not enough killers go on sprees, I’ve always said.”

Sherlock scoffed and laughed with John. It ended too soon.

At Mary’s flat, Sherlock accepted a quick hug. “Good to see you, Mary.” He said. “It’s been an age.”

“It has. You haven’t been avoiding me?”

She knew full well that John hadn’t asked him to come along. “Mycroft has me running around.” Sherlock lied. “You know how it is, national security and all.”

Mary turned to John, raised her eyebrows and mouthed ‘national security.’ 

John smiled wanly and shrugged. Mary took Jane from his arms, leaning in to embrace and kiss John as she did. They hadn’t hugged and kissed before John’s memory loss.

“So,” John said. “The nineteenth.”

“Yes. Would you mind?” Mary asked. “You’re both invited, of course.”

“Usually it wouldn’t be a problem, but we have tickets to the aquarium that day – there’s a thing, a thing for kids.” John told her. “We’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just – you had her on her birthday last year.”

John stared at her. “Yeah. I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh! John, I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.” Mary seemed beside herself.

“Forget it.” John said. 

“I can’t believe I said that.”

“It’s ok.”

She turned to Sherlock. “Can you take Jane – give us a minute?” She asked. 

“Of course.”

“Come on, big girl.” She handed Jane over. “She has some books by the couch.”

Sherlock took the child and sat on the floor by the couch. He pulled out the stack of books. “Should we read this one?” He asked. He watched Mary talking with John. What was she doing? She had her back to Sherlock, so he couldn’t read her lips. Within 90 seconds, she hugged him close – he held her too, his eyes closed tightly to hold in tears. 

She was making a play for John, that was clear. And doing it right in front of him.

“Ock?” Sherlock looked down at Jane and realized he’d stood up. John might fall for Mary’s act. He might go back to her. But Sherlock didn’t have to watch. 

“Read your book, Jane.” He told the girl, hugging her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye-bye , Ock.”

Sherlock left the flat. It was dark out now. He walked briskly away. He heard John calling his name. Should he stop or keep walking? He stopped.

John caught up to him. “What are you doing? You just left.”

“I needed some air.”

“Mm. Feeling all right now?”

“Good enough.” He said. Sherlock didn’t imagine he’d be ‘all right’ ever again. He wondered how long it would be before John moved out of Baker St. He knew he would have already if not for Jane. Moving in with Mary would certainly solve that issue.

When they got back to 221b, Sherlock went to his room. He sat down and accessed his mind palace. He had many memories from throughout his life, some well–loved, some favorites. Sometimes he took one out and tried to recreate it, experience it again, feel the joy and the utter happiness he had felt in that moment – as much as he could sitting alone on a single bed. It couldn’t be healthy, but it was healthier than heroin.

–––

After they started having sex, John asked Sherlock a lot of questions. Chief among them, “Are you sure?”

“I’d love to sleep with you every night, Sherlock. But are you sure?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to use condoms? If we don’t, you absolutely can’t have sex with anyone else, you know that? Are you sure?”

“Are you sure you want me to move into your bedroom?” 

When Sherlock had taken John’s cock in his mouth. “You don’t have to... are you sure?”

Rubbing lubricant over Sherlock’s arsehole. “Is this what you want? Are you sure?”

Inserting his finger, “Do you like this? Are you sure?”

Looking up from between Sherlock’s legs, “You aren’t just doing this because you think I want to? Are you sure?”

Finally Sherlock had lost his patience. “Of course I’m sure, John!” He’d shouted. “When have you ever known me to be UNsure?”

Which had the unfortunate effect of causing John to remove his fingers from Sherlock’s arse and sit back on his heels.

“Well, don’t stop!” He’d said.

John had laughed a little at that. But then got dreadfully earnest. “This is all new to you – new to both of us.”

“Please, John. We both know you’ve done this before.”

That must have tread too closely to the verboten Sholto, because John got that tight look on his face. “This with YOU is new to me. How can I know if I’m going about this the right way if I don’t ask?”

John wanted reassurance? That didn’t seem right. John was very confident with sex. “Don’t worry.” He said. “You’re... doing fine.” 

John laughed out loud at that. “You bloody wanker.” He said fondly. “I’m asking if YOU LIKE IT. I know I’M doing fine, I’m not going to do something I don’t like. But you don’t know what you like –” He cut off Sherlock’s protest. “You know what you WANT, that’s clear. That’s fine. But until we try it, you don’t know if you LIKE it. You might not – or you might not like the way I’m doing it.”

That had not occurred to Sherlock – that John might somehow fail to please him. Was that possible? 

“That.” John said. “That look right there. That’s why I’m asking. You EXPECT to like what I’m doing, yeah? You have so far, yeah? So if suddenly you don’t – it happens! – you might think you’re supposed to like it. You might think something is wrong with you or that it’s enough that I seem to be enjoying myself, and not tell me you don’t like it. Which would lead to YOU not enjoying sex as much, which leads to you wanting less of it – and THAT is something I definitely want to avoid.”

“If I promise to TELL you if I don’t like something, will you put your fingers back in my arse?”

“No.” John said.

“No?”

“It’s harder than you think to tell your lover you don’t like something they are obviously enjoying. I’m going to ask, Sherlock, and you’re going to answer.”

“Oh! Tiresome...”

“Not forever. Just until we’re sure.”

“Fine. Get on with it then.”

“Oh yeah. Impatience makes me hot.”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

Nothing John said, however, prepared Sherlock for the pain of having a fat cock shoved into his hole. 

John had slowly opened him up, taking days and days, weeks even – introducing two fingers, then three. Finger fucking him, harder and deeper. Stimulating his prostate. Sherlock came quickly (and hard) with John’s fingers inside him, so John went more slowly, challenging Sherlock to last longer, try and hold out. 

He had to admit, John sucking his cock with his fingers in Sherlock’s arse was just about the most amazing thing he’d ever felt. It was hard to keep himself from coming too quickly.

When John tongue-fucked him the first time, Sherlock came almost immediately – he realized it was the thought of John doing something so.... something like that, that had brought him off. The next time, Sherlock tried to focus on the sensation – because it did feel wonderful – but still, just the idea of John wanting to stick his tongue inside Sherlock’s arse would make him hard.

Four fingers took some getting used to. John was alternately sweet and bossy, going slowly, encouraging him to relax, running the fingers of his free hand over Sherlock’s bollocks and perineum – then suddenly demanding Sherlock touch himself. Sherlock liked bossy John during sex. It was perversely arousing.

Then John had idly smacked his flank – and Sherlock saw stars. His cock got harder and he heard himself moan. The four fingers felt easier somehow. John smacked him again.

“Yes...!” Sherlock gasped. “Fuck me!” And the four fingers felt amazing. “Harder. Please, harder.” John had slapped his arse again and the tingling in his skin became electric currents routed directly to his cock and nipples and brain. He found himself pushing back onto John’s hand, then he came so suddenly, he surprised himself.

John said then that Sherlock was ready – they could fuck the next time if Sherlock wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to.

The first time, John made Sherlock get on top to take his cock. On top, he said, Sherlock would have control, which seemed important to John. Then he’d spent half an hour slowly opening him up, not so much stimulation that Sherlock would come, but enough to feel good and help him relax. 

John sat against the headboard and had Sherlock straddle his hips. It made him too tall – John’s face at his clavicle – but John told him to shut up and focus. Sherlock reached behind and guided John’s erection to his hole and bearing down, as he’d done with the fingers, pushed himself onto the head. 

He felt like his scalp was being ripped off his head with a garden claw while a flaming telephone pole was shoved into his arse. He had to force himself to stay still, not to pull it out.

“Slow down.” John said. “You’re very tense now. Try and relax.”

“Ungh.”

John caressed his thighs and his cock and his chest, skimming over his nipples. “Look how beautiful you are! Just breathe... let yourself get used to it. If you touch yourself, it helps.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock snarled.

John laughed. “How do you think?” He ran his hands around the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock opened his eyes. “You’ve done this?”

“Yeah. Not a lot, but I tried it. I’ll do it with you if you want to. Keep breathing.”

Sherlock inhaled. It didn’t feel quite so bad now. He bore down again. It hurt, but somewhat less than the first time (still a burning telephone pole, but his scalp felt more intact).

“Not too fast.” John said. “We’re not in a hurry.” He supported Sherlock’s buttocks with his hands. It took quite a while, going inch by inch down John’s erection, but eventually Sherlock got there. He settled his hips, grinding down to be sure he got all of it. 

Sherlock heard John’s sharp intake of breath. He was sweating suddenly and counting his breaths. “John, what’s wrong?” He reached out to run his long fingers over John’s chest.

“Nothing.” John said. “Jesus fuck, absolutely nothing. I am good... so, so good.”

Sherlock smiled and ground his hips again. John gasped. 

“Are you ready?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. John slipped his arms under Sherlock’s knees then reached around through Sherlock’s arms to hold him. He leaned forward and lowered Sherlock onto his back, still buried inside him. “Ok?”

“Yes.”

John smiled and leaned all the way over, pushing Sherlock’s legs high into the air in the process, and kissed Sherlock. “I love kissing you.” He said. He slowly pulled out a few inches then smoothly pushed back in.

The pleasure was intense. After the pain of insertion, it was shocking how good this felt. He realized he’d moaned along with John’s movement.

“You like that?” John whispered.

“Yes! I’m sure! Don’t stop.”

John laughed but pulled out again, a bit more this time, then back in.

“Yes!” 

John did it again and again, gradually upping the pace until Sherlock stopped moaning and started demanding that John fuck him harder.

Grinning, John brought his hand down hard, slapping Sherlock’s buttock, and then started thrusting in earnest. John’s hand found Sherlock’s cock between them and stroked the slick head with his fist along with his thrusts.

Sherlock felt possessed, gripping John’s arms and demanding more – then begging, pleading for more of John’s cock. John had rolled Sherlock’s pelvis forward so he was thrusting straight down into him. He slapped Sherlock’s arse again and Sherlock felt himself crossing the line – he was going to come. He intended to warn John but what came out of his mouth was, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop! John! Aaaah! John! Don’t stop...”

Electric current short–circuited Sherlock’s brain – for a few seconds he felt nothing but the intense waves of pleasure. Then he was again lying under John, shooting onto his own chest, arching and shuddering, crying out.

John kissed his face. “I love watching you come.” He whispered when Sherlock was finally still. He pulled out carefully then jacked himself over Sherlock’s torso, coming with a low moan. Then he rolled to the side, laying himself out next to Sherlock, taking Sherlock’s hand and kissing it. “I think you liked that.” He said.

“Mmmmmm... John. You’re amazing.” They lay together for a while, recovering. Eventually John got up and wet a flannel in the bathroom. He used it to clean off Sherlock’s chest. Back in bed, Sherlock curled up against John’s side still feeling the lassitude of his orgasm. He ran his hand down John’s chest. “John?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you want me to do that to you? Or are you willing to do it if I want to?”

“Mostly the latter, I guess.”

“You didn’t like it very much?”

“It was fine. I was curious. And I figured if I was going to bugger someone, I’d be better at it if I knew what it felt like.”

“You are pretty good at it.” Sherlock kissed his shoulder. “I like it this way.” He said, then added, “Yes, I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last!


	12. Don't Give Up On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to face his fears bravely.

John tore off the jumper and shirt that smelled of Claire de la Lune. He cursed as his hand got caught in an inside-out cuff. This was ridiculous! Why did he feel like he’d betrayed Sherlock? 

He’d snogged his ex-wife a bit. A BIT. So what. He had left before it had got too serious. 

Why? Why had he left?

Sherlock, of course. Bloody Sherlock.

John tried to calm down. He was still a bit soused - he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he’d like. But he knew that if he didn’t do something right now, any relationship he had with Sherlock would be irrevocably damaged. And that mattered.

Why!? Why did it matter!?

"Don't be such a coward!" He told himself.

Over the past few months, John had read through his emails from his missing six years, trying to get a sense of the things he’d done, what his relationships were with people, who he had become. It had been daunting, there were almost ten thousand of them. John had gravitated towards exchanges with people he remembered – like Mike Stamford. Mike’s notes weren’t all that interesting, but some of the ones with Major Sholto had been.

John had found an email from James from around the time of his wedding:

John,  
I have to apologize for putting the joy of your wedding day in jeopardy. Seeing your happiness with Mary was a balm to my soul, and I’m ashamed of my actions. Perhaps it is time for a visit to the old trick cyclist after all. But you know what they say about old dogs.  


The wound is healing well – you can rest easy. Thank you for taking time out of your wedding day to tend to it. I barely feel it now, It's nothing compared to what I've already dealt with.  


You're a lucky man, John - Mary is lovely. And as your best man said, deserving you is the highest praise I can give her.

I had hoped to have a chance to speak with your best man, the detective Sherlock Holmes, before the evening ended. But as you know, circumstances intervened. In some ways, I feel he and I are kindred spirits – moreso, perhaps, than he realises. Please give him my regards. And be kind to him as you have been kind to me.  


As always John, you have my very best wishes for a long and happy life.  


Your friend,  
James

John had wondered what had happened – knowing James, it was something small like breaking a glass and cutting his hand or the like, that James had taken to heart. His stiff upper lip hid great sensitivity, John knew. 

The paragraph, about Sherlock, was telling. Sherlock hadn’t been able to hide his feelings – at least not from Major Sholto. Unsurprising as John hadn’t been able to escape the man’s pain these past few months. It emanated from every word and expression. John wondered if Sherlock was aware of how transparent he was.

But the email about the wedding helped explain a note John himself had sent to the Major roughly two years ago:

James,  
I got your card – you are too generous! Thank you for the gift and your kind wishes. I am the delighted father of a very loud baby girl. We’ve named her Jane Carol – Jane for my mother and Carol for Mary’s.  


It’s great to hear that the physical therapy is giving you greater strength and flexibility in your injured hand, especially as I know you thought it beyond hope. And I’m very glad that you are finally able to heal, in whatever small ways, from your ordeal. I don’t know if you were spared for a reason, as your therapist suggests, but you WERE spared and I, for one, am happy to still have my friend.  


I do have another, less happy, bit of news, one that has made this email more belated than it should be. I’m divorcing Mary. It’s a long story but it’s the right decision for reasons I won’t go into. I’m fine – the decision was made some months ago, but we waited until after Jane was born to take action. We have already agreed on a joint custody scheme.  


I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, James, thinking about where I’d be if I had taken the path you offered so long ago. Would we have ended up hating each other or would it have been the best thing we could have done? I wasn’t brave enough to find out and I’m sorry.  


I wonder if I’m brave enough now. It had no bearing on the dissolution of my marriage, but now that I’m free, my thoughts have turned to Sherlock. I have finally admitted to myself that there is something there – I know you saw it at the wedding. We have both thrown obstacles in our own way time and again, mine mostly in my own head, but perhaps the way is clear now. If it is, does that mean it’s not a mistake to go down that path? I guess I can’t know unless I try. I will give some more thought to it.  


Perhaps it’s time I had a bit of a top up with the trick cyclist, as you like to say.  
Your friend,  
John

The email didn’t even sound like John – how many times had he written and rewritten it? As far as he knew, he and Sholto had NEVER spoken of “the path you offered.” They certainly hadn’t in the four years that John remembered. And it sounded that for at least four more, John had not changed his mind.

But then he HAD thought about it. And all the evidence suggested that John had walked down that path.

He had a choice to make now, John realized – of all the paths open to him, now was the moment he had to commit to this one, or close it forever. That realization – that John could lose Sherlock for good – burned away his ambivalence. He couldn’t lose Sherlock! (Again, something deep inside said, I can’t lose him again!) John didn’t know what he wanted from Sherlock, but everything inside him revolted at the thought of losing him. 

And if he were honest, John knew exactly what he was afraid of – had known from the moment he set eyes on the man. It was long past time to face it.

Throwing his shirt on the floor, John ran up the stairs after Sherlock in his vest. He knocked on the bedroom door. 

“Sherlock, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Sherlock?”

There was no answer. 

“Sherlock!”

John tried the door. It opened easily. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, his head bowed.

“Sherlock...”

“Go away.”

“No.”

“Go away, John.” Sherlock said without looking up. “Go running or whatever it is you do now.”

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re such a dick sometimes.”

“You’ve just realized that now?”

“I didn’t have sex with Mary.”

“We’re not together anymore, John. You’re free.”

John walked across the small room and stood in front of Sherlock awkwardly. “She tried to seduce me. She made dinner and got me pissed – I’m still half drunk. But I left. I didn’t do it.”

Finally Sherlock looked up at John. “Why not? Why not just get it over with. You can be happy with her and Jane.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“Sentiment. You don’t owe me anything, John.” Sherlock was dismissive.

“How would I know?!” John found himself shouting. “According to my blog, I owe you my life several times over. All I know for sure is you were there when I woke up, and you’ve been with me ever since, doing everything you can to try to help me even though it’s obvious it’s killing you inside.” John tried to calm down, but failed. “Sherlock, I really thought I would remember.” He said, frustrated, striking at his head with the flat of his hand. “I WANT to remember.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands again. “Do you?”

“YES! I was so certain that coming here – coming home – it would bring everything back. I would remember.” John caught his breath. “But I didn’t.” He made himself unclench his fists and stretch his fingers. “I mean, I haven’t yet.” Sherlock didn’t say anything. “Fuck, you must hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s head – the crown with its dark curls. “Sherlock...”

“Don’t.”

John closed his fist in Sherlock’s hair.

“Don’t, John. We... we don’t do that anymore.”

“What if I want to?”

“You don’t. That’s been made abundantly clear.”

“Sherlock...”

“John.” He said without lifting his eyes from his lap. “I need you to move out.” 

“You’re giving up.” John felt incredibly sad. He let go of Sherlock’s hair, let his hand drop. 

“You’re not you. You’re not MY John.”

“I know.” John said sadly. “But I've thought about this a lot. There are reasons I acted the way I did in hospital. Not excuses, just reasons. I want to explain, if you’ll let me.”

Sherlock looked up at John once more, studying his face. He nodded once. 

John hesitated then sat down on the bed beside him. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. “I’ve told you about James? James Sholto.” John asked.

Sherlock looked at John, surprised. “Only that you wouldn’t talk about him.”

John scoffed. “That sounds about right.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I did in hospital. I was feeling desperate.”

“No. I should have told you. It’s hard to look back at your own failures...” John collected himself. 

“James and I were together – we had an affair, I guess you’d say... a secret affair for almost three years. Secret because he outranked me – and I reported to him, because he was married, but mostly because neither of us were willing to openly be with another man. I tell myself that it was the place and time.” John shook his head tiredly. “I can’t tell you how many fights I had JUST because I’m short. Other men try to take advantage. Never the same bloke twice, but there’s a never ending supply of assholes, especially in a war zone. Add ‘faggot’ to that... I wasn’t going to go looking for trouble, was I.” John took a breath. “Our chaps weren’t so bad, we had gay soldiers when I joined up ... but the bloody Americans.... I treated more than a few soldiers for beatings – and for rape, men and women. To a man, the men lied about how they were hurt. Just being gay meant he ‘wanted it.’ Not being able to fight off the man – or men – meant he was ‘asking for it’ somehow. Yeah. 

“Eventually James’ wife discovered he was having an affair. She threatened to tell his commanding officer if he didn’t end it. James wanted us.... to come out. It would have ruined his career, probably, but he said he loved me. He’d never said that before. We’d had bloody rows over the smallest suggestion that someone might find out, and suddenly he wants to tell everyone! I loved him too. So much! So much it hurt. But I couldn’t ... I was a coward...” John broke off. He sat silently for a long moment.

“James got himself transferred. We stayed in touch. It was easier over email, we managed to stay friends – we know each other so well. He divorced – I always hoped he’d find someone.... had he, when you met him?”

“No.” Sherlock said. “He still loves you.”

John let that sink in. “Would you?” He asked Sherlock. “Would you find someone else?”

He could barely hear Sherlock’s answer. “No.”

“Then don’t give up on me, Sherlock.” John said. “After James, I vowed I would never let myself be in that position again. I’m predominantly straight, I made a choice. You understand? It hurt too much with James, there were too many complications, so much stress. That’s where I was when I woke up in hospital and told you to bugger off.” John sighed. “Since then I’ve thought a lot about how I could have ended up with you. It would have been very hard for me to admit to myself that I was attracted to another man – and even harder, almost impossible, to be open about it. That man would have to be ... extraordinary. And I would have had to have been absolutely ga-ga, over-the-moon for him – completely gone. It would have taken time to wear down the barriers, the impediments, but eventually – if he felt the same – there would be no way around it anymore.” John turned to look at Sherlock. “So that’s what happened, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

John took Sherlock’s hand in his own and touched his cheek with the other. “Don’t give up.” He pulled Sherlock into his arms. 

Sherlock hesitated, then hugged John with all his strength, holding him fiercely. John found himself crushed against the man’s chest, his face against Sherlock’s neck and hair. He inhaled – Sherlock smelled so good, so familiar ... It was wonderful: wool and leather, sandalwood musk, sweat, coffee and curry and just a hint of pine. John KNEW this scent – it was SHERLOCK, and it had been with John for so long: when he was lost, it had found him; when he was so alone, it pulled him up and into adventure; when he was threatened, it rescued him; it was THERE every day and it was excitement and an irritant and LIFE and he loved it and wanted it... and then it was gone and John was alone again and it was so much worse than before, mourning it, longing for it, regretting... after a long time, John no longer reached for it, he’d let go of the needing, if not the wanting, the longing. But out of nowhere it was with him again! And it was wonderful and infuriating and exciting, worming its way into every corner of his new life. It was there at his wedding, there when he discovered his wife’s treachery, there when his daughter was born, there to save him again and again and again and he loved it more than ever and he wanted it... he wanted...then... then it was HIS...

John felt himself falling into it, Sherlock opening like a flower, like an ocean and swallowing him whole and he was inside it, floating and flying....

He must have swooned – he found himself lying down on the bed, Sherlock leaning over him, an arm still around his neck. “John? John?” Sherlock was patting his face.

“Stop that, you git.” John said. He looked up into the face of his lover, traced his upper lip with his thumb. “I remember you.” He let his fingers wander across Sherlock’s cheek to his dark mop of curls. “I remember us.”

Sherlock was studying his face intently. 

John felt tears running down his temples into his hair. He was so relieved, his life was his own again. He took a big, shuddering breath.

“I’ve never told you how much I love you.” John said. “I should have.”

“I knew.” Sherlock seemed surprised that he’d spoken.

John smiled and pulled Sherlock down to kiss his outrageous lips. Sherlock tentatively kissed him back. “Are you sure?” John asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Finally Sherlock exhaled and smiled a little. “John?”

“I’m here. I’m bloody here!” He kissed Sherlock again. “I know you, you impossible, ridiculous, gorgeous, brilliant, drama queen.” He kissed Sherlock again, more deeply.

Sherlock clung to him. “John!” He buried his face in John’s chest. “My John...”

“Come here.” He lifted Sherlock’s face. “You’re so fucking beautiful. No more sad eyes, Sherlock – I couldn’t bear your sad eyes these last months. I was so lost...” John rolled Sherlock onto his back so John was leaning over him now, his hand pressing into Sherlock’s chest, moving back and forth, gripping and caressing. “I haven’t touched you in so long.” Sherlock’s hands had found their way under John’s vest. “How could I forget about touching you? It seems impossible.”

“I don’t know “ Sherlock murmured, kissing his jaw.

“Can you forgive me? I’ve been such an arse.”

“You didn’t know.”

“Am I still allowed to touch you?” His hand was lower now, exploring Sherlock’s abdomen. 

“Yes, of course. Always.”

“Then why are we up here? We should be in our bed.”

They didn’t go directly to their bed. It took a while to get up off John’s old bed in the upstairs room. They snogged and touched and held on to each other and tried to believe this was real again. 

When they eventually went downstairs, John looked around the front room – his chair, he had rarely sat in his chair since coming home from the hospital. He hadn’t remembered it was his. He eased himself into it, closing his eyes with the pleasure of having it underneath him. Sherlock watched, standing between the front room and kitchen.

“Come here.” John said. When Sherlock was close enough, he pulled him onto his lap and nuzzled his ivory neck, inhaling his scent again. Then John pulled back, his eyes serious. “I guess I should say that haven’t slept with anyone since the accident. I would tell you if I had.” 

“I trust you, John.”

John nodded. “Do I need to ask if you...." He saw the look Sherlock was giving him. "No, of course not." John pulled Sherlock close again and kissed his neck. "What do you want?” He asked tugging on his hair the way he knew Sherlock liked. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you inside me.” Sherlock whispered.

"Mmmm" John moved his mouth up Sherlock's neck to his jaw. But then he pulled back once more. “Sherlock... in hospital, Mycroft said you only have sex to accommodate me. Not because you want it. You would tell me if that were the case, yeah?”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock scoffed. “My bloody brother needs to stay out of our bedroom. As usual, he has no idea what he’s talking about – look, I’m soft now.”

“I’m sure I can remedy that. I AM a doctor.” He started to unbutton Sherlock’s trousers. “Time for your examination.”

Sherlock breathed in John’s ear, nipped his neck. “Take me to bed.” He said. “And never mention Mycroft and sex together again.”

“Get up, then. And take off your trousers. I want to see you.” Sherlock stood. John had already unfastened them, so Sherlock eased them down over his thighs.

“Oh my god.” John sighed, feeling how hard he was getting. Sherlock stepped out of his trousers and walked away towards the bedroom. John jumped up and followed him. 

Sherlock had his shirt off already and stood there in his black pants. John put his hands on Sherlock’s waist and caressed his skin. “So gorgeous.” He murmured.

Sherlock tugged John’s vest over his head. “You’re so thin.” He said, running his fingers over the muscles on John’s abdomen, exploring the new, lurid scars on the right side of his torso. 

“It’s the running.” John said. “It was an outlet for... for everything.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. “You’re back.” He said. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“Me too. Now get your arse on the bed.”

Sherlock grinned and complied. John quickly took off his trousers and climbed in after him. He ran his hand down Sherlock’s long flank. “Look at you.” He whispered. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock deeply, his hand coming up into Sherlock’s dark curls.

Sherlock groaned and stretched his legs out, massaging John’s chest with his hands, luxuriating in the attention like a big cat. He let John push him onto his back and roll on top of him.

John ran a hand down Sherlock’s side and snagged it on his pants. “Why are you still wearing these?” He asked.

“You’re wearing yours.”

“We’re fools.”

“I have a solution.” Sherlock said, lifting his hips so he could push his pants down. “You could help.”

John sat up and pulled Sherlock’s pants down his long legs and off. He paused to fondle Sherlock's erection, then he shucked his own. His cock stood up rudely, fat and red and already weeping precome.

Sherlock had the lube out of the drawer already, he pressed it into John’s hands and spread his legs. John grinned and took his place between them. He paused a moment to lean over and kiss Sherlock. “I’ve missed this.” He said.

Sherlock pulled his face back for a deeper kiss, his tongue teasing. “Me too. So much!” He said. “Now fuck me.”

“I love it when you say that.” John retreated and started rubbing lubricant on Sherlock’s arse, fingering him and fisting his cock. 

“I’m not going to last long.” Sherlock said. 

“We can always go again.” He put a second then a third finger inside Sherlock. “It’s been a while. We should take our time.”

“Do it now. I need your cock.”

“If you’re sure.” John teased. With a copious amount of lube, he pressed the head of his cock against Sherlock. “Ready?” He asked. He pressed in slowly, his foreskin was pushed by the ring of muscle, sliding back from the head. He moaned, it felt amazing.... but it had been months since they’d done this, he took a deep breath and restrained himself. “Ok?” He asked, caressing Sherlock’s hips. 

“Give me more.” John complied. Sherlock was eager, he twitched his hips and smiled at John’s moan of pleasure. 

John slipped Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders and began fucking him slowly. “More.” Sherlock moaned. John thrust more vigorously, purposely neglecting Sherlock’s cock, hoping to draw this out. “Oh god John.” Sherlock begged. “Fuck me, John. Harder. Fuck me. Come inside me.” 

John pistoned into Sherlock’s hole, then slowed for two leisurely strokes, then pistoned again, his balls slapping. Sherlock was crying out, but the words didn’t make sense. John wet his thumb in his mouth and circled a nipple on Sherlock’s chest, he pinched it and flicked it and rubbed it instead of Sherlock’s cock – Sherlock reached for his erection himself, but John stopped him, pinned his hand, played with his nipple and fucked him hard. 

“You’re beautiful. Come for me.” John said and ground his hips against Sherlock’s arse. He abandoned the nipple to slap Sherlock’s buttock, and he leaned in far enough that he brushed Sherlock’s cock with his torso with each thrust. Sherlock was almost there, John knew the look on his face. And then with a last, stinging slap, Sherlock was coming, crying out and spurting, toes curling and pelvis grinding. 

“Oh John! My John!”

John put his head down and fucked Sherlock’s arse hard, slamming himself into his hole mercilessly as Sherlock came and after 20 seconds of sustained pumping, shot his load inside his lover, filling him with his hot cum.

John collapsed on top of Sherlock. They were a sweaty, sticky mess. He grinned. He pulled out carefully then flopped over on his back beside Sherlock. He looked at the man lying next to him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He asked. He brushed the damp curls off Sherlock's forehead. His face was flushed and contorted and tears were streaming from his eyes. "Oh god, did I hurt you?"

"No, no, not at all." Sherlock said, snuffling. "It's just.... sentiment."

"Tell me." John said.

Sherlock ran his hand over his face. "John..."

"It's ok, love." 

"Oh, John... I HAD given up." He said softly. "I knew I couldn't be around you and Mary together, not after what we'd been. I couldn't bear it. I wouldn't see Jane anymore," His voice caught. "And you would be gone."

"Shhh. It didn't happen. I'm here." John stroked the tangled curls.

"This might be a dream." Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, scrunching his face. "If it is, don't ever wake me up."

John kissed the man's face. "Shhh, my love. I'm here. You aren't dreaming." Sherlock's fingers dug into John's shoulder. "Listen... even when I couldn't remember... this... I couldn't stop thinking about you. Yeah. It was... infuriating, really. Even with a debilitating brain injury I couldn't get away from you."

Sherlock scoffed and wiped at his tears with a fist.

"I'll tell you what, let's get in the shower and I'll let you have all the cold water so you know you aren't dreaming."

Sherlock laughed at that. John embraced him, holding Sherlock close in his strong arms.

\---

A young woman led a young man out of the Jubilee station and down the street. She was compact and athletic and looked completely unprepossessing in her green pleated dress and low-heeled boots - though he had found it was a mistake to underestimate her, she was smart, witty and incredibly capable (with a bit of a temper). She wore her strawberry-blonde hair short – it was set off by her vivid orange lipstick. The short fingernails on her small, square (capable) hands matched her eyes, a sparkling gray-blue. The young man thought she was perfect, he could hardly take his eyes off her. The only thing better was making her laugh. He loved her laugh.

It had worried him that she had very little time in her busy life – they were both students, and the woman carried a heavy load (quite capably) – for him to either look at her or make her laugh, but then she invited him home to meet her fathers. This, he thought, is good. I can impress her family – he was handsome and well-spoken, it wouldn't be difficult to make a good impression on two older, gay men. (Would it?)

They turned right down Baker St. and something niggled at the back of the young man's brain. She led them to 221 and opened her bag for the key.

He frowned. "221 Baker St." He said. "Why is that familiar? I've never been here before."

She smiled. "It was on the news last night."

He stared at the house, the black door, the knocker... "Sherlock Holmes!" He exclaimed. "Is he a neighbor?"

She looked at him sharply. "What's my name?" She asked.

"Jane..."

"Yes?"

"Jane Watson – oh bloody hell!"

"Yes." She said.

The front door flew open and there stood the man himself, tall and imposing, his unruly dark curls threaded with silver, his eyes colorless and piercing, framed by deeply embedded laugh lines. He wasn't wearing his signature coat or hat, simply a well-fitted black suit and plain white shirt. 

"Jane!" He cried, his arms thrown wide in a dramatic gesture.

"Ock!" She hugged him and he wrapped his long arms around her small frame. "You've lost weight." She said. "Isn't Dad feeding you."

"Yes, he's quite irritating about it." Sherlock's eyes flicked over the young man. "Philosophy major, Jane?" He asked skeptically.

She shrugged. "He makes me laugh." She gestured to the young man to come closer. "George Davies, meet Sherlock Holmes." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." George said, offering his hand. "I've read all your books."

Sherlock sighed and waved off the young man's hand. "They're John's books, not mine. Don't believe any of it - bunch of romantic nonsense."

"Speaking of, where's Dad?" Jane asked.

"He's making the thing with the peas." Sherlock said. "I thought I should have a look at your new boy first, considering what happened last time – his doctor says getting that angry isn't good for his blood pressure."

Jane winced. "That was your fault, Ock. You shouldn't have deduced the foot fetish and peeping during dinner - in front of Dad."

"Mmmmm." Sherlock said. "I invited your mother today. She's with John now."

"Oh!" Jane said. "I should get up there before Dad's blood pressure..."

"Yes." Sherlock replied. "You should. That will give George and I a chance to have a ... conversation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking that as John had eschewed Sherlock's touching after he lost his memory, that touch (and scent) should be what brought him back.

**Author's Note:**

> Amnesia doesn't really work this way - like Jason Bourne hitting his head and losing his memory, it coming back a scrap at a time. It's pretty much either psychological amnesia, or brain damage (like from electric shock treatment) that kills the cells containing those memories, or brain damage that keeps you from forming memories. If John had that, he'd forget everything all the time. Like Memento. Or 50 First Dates. OK, forget I cited that movie.
> 
> This piece is FINISHED.


End file.
